


but if we loved again i swear i'd love you right

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 13 Going on 30 AU, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cheating, Childhood Friends, Childhood Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Tragic Romance, Woops, and its written by me if youre still here after five years, i just remembered i do have some trigger warnings, idk what yall want from me the first tag is all you really need to know, just admit you like mediocre fic and start reading, romcom, the bridge of sad beautiful tragic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22761682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: One day, it's Clarke sixteenth birthday and she just had the worst fight with her best friend and the next day, Clarke is thirty and wondering where it all fell apart.[Or: 13 going on 30 AU]
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, also theyre dating other people at one point suck it up, if you can bear the 100 you can bear this fic
Comments: 48
Kudos: 166





	but if we loved again i swear i'd love you right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loverosie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverosie/gifts).



> can't believe i finally get to weasle a back to december lyric into one of my fic titles. it was a long road, and i never thought we'd get here, but look at us now.
> 
> this is for mars. whom we all gonna wish a very happy birthday. here's to finally being allowed to vote, gotta catch all those rights. one day imma use all my white girl saviour powers to fix racism for you so can have even more. i love you so much. you're crazy special. and i cannot wait for you to comment on this with a simple 'idiots'.

* * *

_Griffin Residence_

_2006_

Clarke can’t deny she isn’t actually a little bit relieved when the doorbell rings. Her friends can be overwhelming. Always being loud, blasting Britney Spears songs at full volume, discussing reality tv shows she doesn’t have the mindspace to watch and somehow always finding a way to make a backhanded compliment about her weight. She didn’t even get a cake, afraid even the sight of all those carbs would make Josie combust on the spot. 

It’s past five, which means her mom is probably too drunk to realize the doorbell went off by now, so she hurries up the stairs, slightly out of breath when she swings open the door. It takes her beat, to correspond the person standing in front of her with the place they’re at. 

Clarke stupidly blinks at him, the small, horribly wrapped present in his golden brown hands to the crisp blue button down he’s wearing — actually ironed for the first time in the entire ten years she’s known him. Dark curls on top of his head are still a mess, like always. Not gelled back, like they usually are for class because his mom thinks he looks more presentable like that. He knows she carries a small vendetta against Aurora exactly for that reason.

None of it explains _why_ he is here, though. Her brain is still going error: 404, a faint buzzing noise in her ears from the sudden spike in her blood pressure. 

“Bellamy?” Her forehead crinkles, trying to make sense of it. He’s always busy on Thursdays. She sounds clipped, cold, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you talking about? It’s your birthday party,” he presses, easy smile on his face like this isn’t her worst nightmare come true. Josie doesn’t like Bellamy. His grin widens, teasingly like he’s above it all. “Sweet sixteen, big deal and all.” Like they didn’t make that horrendously long road trip to the Smithsonian with his sister for his sixteenth and spent way too much money on his favorite ice cream flavor. 

“What about Octavia?” Clarke invited him, technically, yes. He is her best friend and she didn’t _want_ to exclude him. But she had a foolproof plan. His mom always works Thursday nights, which means Bellamy has to look after his little sister. He would never leave leave her by herself, especially not in favor of hanging out with her other friends. The dislike is mutual. 

His eyebrows rise, like it’s so obvious. “A babysitter.”

Her fingers tighten around the door handle, and the confusion on her face must be evident, because he snorts like he’s amused, scratching the back of his head a little awkwardly like he’s ashamed to admit it. “I picked up some extra shifts to cover it.”

  
Stupid boy, she thinks as her chest warms. He’s such a stupid boy.

So she gives in, begrudgingly, holding the door open wider. “My friends from the academy are here.” There’s a warning in her tone, because whenever they hang out, just the two of them, he can’t wait to rant to her about how much he _hates_ her privileged trustfund friends; the way they talk, the way they act, the way they dress. Mostly she thinks he doesn’t like them because they look down on him, on how he’s from the poor part of town with a shitty car from 1992, how he’s a teenager with a job and responsibilities, how he doesn’t let them get away with anything. The last time him and Josie were in the same room, she made Octavia cry about her ‘ _last season sneakers’_ and he called her a psycho.

Which she is, sometimes. But still. It’s important to Clarke’s mom that she does well at this school. Fits in with them. Doesn’t have another complete mental breakdown. Doesn’t get kicked out of it, like her last one. Pissing off the headmaster's daughter would probably not be a good move for her, personally. 

“I figured,” he deadpans, taking a step forward, pressing the present into her hands carefully. His warm fingers linger on hers for a moment as he presses a quick kiss to her cheek. Just a year ago he started to get a grow spurt, finally, and it still surprises her every time when he looms over her. As much as his kindhearted smirk surprises her when it’s directly aimed at her, a little soft around the edges like he only saves for her and a select few other people. “I’ll put up with them. Because it’s your birthday.”

The _duh_ was implied. A given, like it used to be. It used to be natural, easy, between them. They were best friends, they would do anything for each other. Bring an extra lunch to school for him every last week of the month because his mother would always run out of paycheck. Skip class to come to her father’s funeral and hold her hand through it all. Drop everything to come to each other’s recitals or art shows or birthday parties, no matter how lame. Now, a lot of the time, it’s just awkward. Clarke doesn’t really know what to say to him anymore, afraid he might not like the new person she’s become. 

Despite everything, his opinion did always matter to her the most and still holds a terribly unfathomable weight to her. Even now that it’s weird between them. Maybe even especially so. The tiny parts of her he still gets to see, still gets to hold, she wants him to like. Wants him to miss her as much as she misses him.

Along with the grow spurt and the heavy construction job he worked on the weekends, he got broader, arms and and thighs and chest filled out with taut muscles. He grew into his face a little more, suddenly realized how attractive he was and how it could help him get things done, learned how to channel his relentless teasing into something more charming, flirty overnight. It got him more attention too. From girls who weren’t her or Octavia. She hated sharing him, and the feeling only grew after her mom sent her to the academy and she got to spend less and less time with him. 

It only took her four different girls, one miserable ditched movie night and a single ‘ _guess who’s no longer a virgin ;)_ ’ text for her to realize she had a big fat crush on her best friend. It just added another level of weirdness between the two of them, and Clarke dealt with it the only way she knew how, leaning away even further. 

“Thank you,” Clarke mumbles quietly as an afterthought, biting down on her bottom lip as she steps aside to let him in. He holds her gaze for another second, corners of his mouth turned up almost timidly before he gives her a small nod, moving inside her three-story mansion. 

He looks around meticulously while he shrugs out of his jacket, like something might have changed about the place since last time he came over. Somehow, he always looks a little out of place, in this big house with the crisp off-white walls, expensive art none of them even liked and staged family photos. No matter it’s size, the house has always felt small to her in different, more important ways. Bellamy always acts like he owns every room he walks into, isn’t afraid to take up space, never not overwhelmingly authentic. 

It’s not like Clarke couldn’t have gone to a private school before. Her dad a highly esteemed engineer and her mother a multi-award winning doctor, it’s not like they didn’t have the money. If it wasn’t for her dad, she probably would have, but he wanted her to have a public education, like him. Thought it would round her out more. Her mother didn’t really care, not until after he died and she suddenly realized she had to raise Clarke by herself when over the years, she forgot to ever put in any effort to have a real conversation with her. Her mother hardly knew her, hardly knew how to talk to her, or how to comfort her. What made her sad, what brought her joy.

The only way Abby knew how to measure her well-being was in academic success, so a first logical step after getting kicked out of Polis High for destroying school property, was to get her into her old private school, Sanctum Preparatory Academy. It was an hour away from home, but since Clarke could barely stand to be there anymore, she figured it was a blessing in disguise. The less time she’d have to spend with her mom, the less time she had to say something that was upsetting to her, or do something that would make her angry. Surely she’d miss her old friends, mostly Bellamy, but she’d still get to see them. 

Above anything, Clarke wanted her mother to be happy. Proud of her. She didn’t want to give her mother any reasons to be mad at her, mad enough to push her away, or maybe even leave, too. Clarke doesn’t think she could bear losing another person. Not again. Wells, her dad… She can’t go through that again. And her mom was fragile right now. Any little thing could be too much for her. So Clarke had no other choice but to be — _perfect_. 

He groans, only half-jokingly, dragging his feet. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Yet, it’s almost easy. Fall back into their own routine. To be with him like she used to be. “Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you,” she deadpans, following him down the stairs leading to the basement, a skip in her step that wasn’t there before. There’s the distinct stench of nail polish the the further down they get, Justin Timberlake’s voice crooning lowly over the speakerset. 

Clarke puts his gift in the closet they use to store all the old board games along with the others, she’s gotten for safekeeping, before joining the small circle in which they’re sitting. Josie is already rolling her eyes at his presence, but thankfully doesn’t say anything as Kaylee is currently requiring most of the spotlight, still going on and on about how annoying her brother is. 

Bellamy’s shoulders are unnaturally stiff as Clarke hands him a drink with a nudge of her wrist before plopping down on the pillow on the floor beside him. He feels out of place here, and she doesn’t blame him. She does too, most of the time. At least it seems like today, they’ll hopefully mostly try to ignore his presence, in favor of keeping the peace. It’s her birthday after all.

Jade’s dad never locks his liquor cabinet nor his wine cellar, so she’s spiked all the drinks, and from the look on Bellamy’s face immediately after he gulps half of it down, he doesn’t like it. She tries to stifle her laughter, but fails terribly as he shudders and sends her an exasperated look. 

Lowering his voice, he leans into her, hissing, “Jesus, did someone piss in this?”

Clarke tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, sends him a knowing look. “What’s the matter, nerd? It’s a french, red wine from the early 1900’s.” Her eyes gleam mischievously, bicep brushing against his as she reminisces about the countless of semi-drunk rants about roman history he’s gone on, their shoulders pressed together, spread out on his rooftop. “Seems like something you’d be into.”

He wipes his shiny mouth with the back of his hand, “Yeah, for sure, overpriced prehistoric glorified wine-cooler mixed with Mountain Dew is exactly what gets me all hot and bothered, princess.”

Her laughter fades quickly as she catches the disdained look on Josie’s face, her eyes like ice and jaw set like stone. “LeeLee, _zip_ it already,” she commands loudly, suddenly, not taking her eyes off Clarke. Kaylee immediately goes mute, cheeks flushed as Josie’s smirk widens maliciously. “Let’s play truth or dare.” She tilts her head, long eyelashes fluttering slowly. “What do you say, Griffin?”

“Sure,” she mumbles disinterestedly, taking a small sip of her own drink to keep from having to say more. It’s not like she’ll back down from the obvious challenge. Everything is always just a sick game to her, and Clarke has found it’s easier to just play along. Pissing off Josephine is not something she’s in the mood for right now. It’s been a couple of rough weeks, and for once she just wants to relax, not have to worry about pleasing her mom, or saying the right thing to her friends, or looking at her best friend in the wrong way. 

Bellamy throws back the rest of the cup despite his earlier reaction to it’s contents, like the thought of being sober around these people is worse than the taste of it. Having him here makes it better though, like this house is more of a home again, keeping her safe. It’s nice, exchanging knowing looks and hidden grins with him when someone says something a little too on-the-nose and embarrassingly out of touch with reality. 

They start off relatively innocent, just questions about what teacher they’d make out with if they’d pick one and who the hottest guy in the room is. Or the prettiest girl, which obviously Jade only asks to placate Josie, like anyone will have the balls to pick any girl besides their self-appointed queen bee. 

Except, Bellamy picks _her_. Easily. Doesn’t even blink as he says, “Clarke,” the tension in the room growing thick as rage radiates off Josie in heavy waves. Her expertly manicured fingernails dig into her palms as her gaze narrows into a glare, but she surprisingly doesn’t say anything. 

And Clarke, Clarke’s mouth feels dry, not even because of Josie quite possibly being on the verge of a temper tantrum, but because of the fact Bellamy just called her _pretty._ He hasn’t called her pretty since, what, fifth grade? When she came to school on Halloween wearing that frilly blue Cinderella dress and he chuckled, touched the plastic crown on top of her wavy hair briefly and uttered the words ‘ _pretty princess_ ’. Even then, it was half-hearted and sounded more like a condescending insult than words of praise. 

Spite, she notes it down to spite. If he didn’t hate Josie’s guts and lived for annoying the shit out of her, he would’ve said her name. It’s not like he actually thinks she’s the prettiest girl in the room, and even if he does because he just intrinsically hates all these people too much to find them even the slightest bit of attractive, she pales in comparison to any of his previous girlfriends. Most of all, it’s important to herself that the record states that her stomach most definitely did _not_ flip as soon as he said it.

That big, fat crush? It was past-tense. She has moved on. Not to bigger or better things, just _different_ things. Safer things.

Clarke inhales sharply, hoping her reaction of pure, unadulterated _shock_ wasn’t too obvious, and Bellamy for some reason avoids her gaze as the game picks back up. The mood in the room is borderline uncomfortable, but they move on, and then Lorelei makes Carl strip down to his underwear on the first dare, and Clarke knows it’ll only go downhill from here. It’s like being in a roller coaster that’s been put into motion and knowing she can’t do anything to stop it from making the descent.

“It’s your turn, birthday girl,” Kaylee beams, taunt in her sing-song voice as her eyes zero in on her, wiggling her eyebrows.

She swallows hard, doesn’t like the way Josie is looking at Bellamy like he’s a toy she can play with. If she picks truth, they will most likely make her embarrass herself in front of him. If anything, Josie knows how to read people, knows how to read _her_ . And Clarke’s not sure she’s done a good enough job at hiding the way she feels about Bellamy. Josie never passes up an opportunity to be cruel. Of course, Clarke could always lie, and that would maybe work on most of them, but she knows _he_ ’d see right through her. And she doesn’t want him to know all about how pathetic she is. So, she picks, “Dare.”

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Josie exclaims immediately, neutral look on her face like she hasn’t been cooking this up for a while now, and Kaylee doesn’t even protest about it not even being her turn. Something ugly flashes in front of her blue eyes as she presses, saccharine sweet, “Get in the closet.”

A part of Clarke wants to protest, tell Josie to go fuck herself. That this is her birthday, and there’s not a single person in this room she’d like to spend seven minutes in heaven with. She wants to eat cake — a whole fucking cake all by herself — and spend her night curled up on the couch watching her old favorite childhood movies and for once not have her mom be passed out cold in her study she locks herself into before it’s even eight pm. Another part of Clarke, a part she’s come to know intimately, know more and _more_ ever since she lost Wells and her dad and then realized she’d lost half of who she is, doesn’t put up even the barest of a fight.

Sighing loudly, she puts down her red solo cup on the floor beside her and pushes herself up with both of her hands, ignoring the shit-faced, conspiratorial giggles coming from Jade. Of course she’s eating this up — as long as none of them are the target, as long as they get to laugh at someone else’s misery.

Bellamy briefly frowns up at her with a pensive look, and it seems like he wants to say something, but Clarke quickly looks away before he gets the chance, slinking off towards the closet. In there, she lowers herself back onto the floor, leaning her head back against the shelf stuffed full with presents she knows she’ll have to pretend to like later as her fingers curl into fists.

This is stupid.

Knowing Josie, she’ll send in Gabriel, her boyfriend, as some sort of sick test. Maybe she’s onto her even, has seen her send Jade all those nervous, longing looks in the locker room and will make her come in to screw with her. God, she hopes it’s not that creep Cage. 

Loud whoops of teasing laughter errupt outside, and Clarke holds her breath as the door creaks open. The light that slips in from the temporary crack in the door reveals it’s not any of her guesses. Not at all. Reveals that that last tiny bit of her lingering self-defensive mechanism kept her from considering it as an option at all.

It’s Bellamy. 

She doesn’t know _how_ Josie convinced him to come in, but her first instinct is to apologize. She rises up from the floor quickly, stumbles a little on her feet before she flicks on the light. From outside the tiny closet, a muffled version of _Why Can’t I_ plays from the radio. 

Her heart is beating a mile a minute as she stares up at him. He tugs on his ear a little nervously, then covers it up with a scoff, stuffing his hands in his pockets to keep from doing it again probably. He can never keep his hands still. “Nice company you keep.”

The tone in his voice rubs her the wrong way. He doesn’t _get_ to judge her. Clarke crosses her arms over her chest, juts her chin up defensively. “You say that, but you’ve made me hang out with Murphy before.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. The closet is suddenly too small, and it feels like there’s not enough air for the both of them, and she’s standing too close to him to form any straight thoughts, all of them scrambled into one overwhelming feeling. Longing. One she tries hard to push aside, cover up with all the anger and frustration and resentment she can grasp onto with the tip of her fingers. 

There’s something here — between the two of them — something both of them are too stubborn to recognize, frustration because of it building, which in turn just makes both of them bitter in the worst way. Picking at old wounds, in ways only they can. 

Bellamy’s eyes feel heavy on her, and she catches him look her up and down in the faint yellow light. Dark brown eyes linger on her short skirt, the tacky pink lipgloss Josie borrowed her and the poofy part in the middle of her blonde head of hair. He makes a small indignant noise in the back of his throat, not at all unlike a huff, and it sounds too sanctimonious for her to let it go. “What?” She snaps, fingers tightening around her arms hard enough to leave bruises.

“What even is all of this?” He snorts, amused, reaching up to tug on a strand of hair falling down her shoulder. It’s playful, almost. But she knows him too well. 

Her heart stutters in her chest. “Stop making fun of me. They’re my friends. I like them.” It’s the principle of it all. And maybe if she repeats it enough, she’ll actually start to believe it.

“No, you don’t,” he opposes matter-of-factly, like _he_ somehow knows better, softly, as if they’re not fighting. There’s crease in his forehead but an amused glint in his eyes. It’s a look all too familiar, like one he’d pull on Octavia whenever she’d stomp her foot and demand candy for breakfast. Like she’s asking for something she doesn’t know how dangerous will be for her in the end. Well, Clarke is not his sister. She knows what she’s getting into. She doesn’t need him to protect her from anything.

It does nothing to calm down the irrepressible waves of irritation rising up in her body. Can’t he just let it go for once? Can’t he finally stop treating her like a child? Can’t he tell she _needs_ this? That she _doesn’t_ need for him to make it more difficult?

“Shut up,” she retorts defiantly, but it comes out like more of a hoarse whisper.

His frown deepens, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “This isn’t who you are, Clarke.”

She grits her teeth together, thinks about how he couldn’t even possibly know that. They haven’t had a real conversation in months. Not since he got one girlfriend after another, always too busy for her, and she forgot how to talk to him when she could only bear to tell him half-truths. That was never them — brutally honest even when it hurt. Until the truth could be the very reason they fall apart. How do you tell someone you’re growing apart from, someone you don’t want to give more reasons to push you away, that your mother has traded booze for pills? Was she supposed to text him that she wasn’t enough of a reason for her mother to want to live, humiliate herself even further? No, that was never going to happen.

Of course he tried to be there for her, because that’s who he is, always taking care of _someone_ , but she didn’t want him to. She pulled back from him, with good reason. He reminds her too much of her old life, of the old Clarke. Not who she is now, who she had to become after losing her semi-brother and father in the span of three months. She _fixed_ herself, put back all the broken pieces and superglued them together, he doesn’t get to judge however she did that. “You don’t know who I am.”

He tilts his head, hurt flashing across his eyes, but however laughable, Clarke _knows_ him, and she knows that whenever his mess of feelings get too hard to untangle, he grasps hold of the one that bubbles to the surface most easily. Anger. His nostrils flare, mirroring her crossed arms. "Then what am I even doing here?"

Clarke throws up her arms, irrationally furious. "Seven minutes in heaven, apparently."

His biceps flex before he lowers his arms to his sides. "Apparently," he echoes, just as stubbornly and maybe even more brattily than her. He takes a step closer to her, a challenge in his narrowed eyes. "Well, let's get on with it then."

She's not about to be the one who backs down — over her dead body she will give him the satisfaction — so she remains firmly frozen in place. Her eyes only darkening while she stares up at him, lips pursed in disdain as the shelf behind her digs into her back. Heat radiates off his body, and then his eyes dart down to her lips and he's suddenly leaning closer. He smells nice, like sandalwood and saturdays strolling around the mall doing absolutely nothing besides eating their weight in pretzels and him. Panic crawls up Clarke's throat at the thought she might _actually_ want this, want him to kiss her. Bellamy is still staring at her lips, although the frown's melted off his brow. His adam's apple bobs up and down heavily, and suddenly he's inches away from her mouth.

Clarke shoves him back, breathing hard for an entirely different reason. Terror thunders down on her, panic mounting with every word. This isn't _them_. This can't happen. "Jesus, Bellamy! Why are you so obsessed with me?" She doesn't even sound like herself. Josie's words, not hers but the impact is just the same. All color drains from his face as he stares at her with slightly widened eyes and she can't physically stop herself from continuing, fingers squeezing into fists. "Seriously, I know you have this whole complex about being worthless so you like to feel needed because _god forbid_ someone lives their own life and makes their own decisions, but guess what?" Her voice turns icy cold, and Clarke forces it to be steady even if she can see the devastation set in on his face and her pulse is leaping up her throat. She can't back down now. "I don't need you."

Bellamy opens his mouth, then closes it as he starts nodding to himself while his jaw tightens. He rakes a hand through his hair, tone rough, “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

This feels like a make or break it kind of moment, and she doesn’t want to break whatever her and Bellamy have. Not when he’s been her friend ever since she was a little girl. Not when what they have is special. There just doesn’t seem to be another choice — all roads these past few months leading her here, to this moment. Her new friends outside of the door. So much between the two of them they haven’t said, have been afraid to say. Her chest aches and aches, but she took it too far to back down now. She raises her chin, keeps her face straight. A terse moment passes before she agrees, lips pursed defiantly, “Maybe not.”

“Fine,” he spits back, not even sparing her another look as he turns on his heels, pushing open the door and storming out. A quick glimpse of the basement tells her it’s empty, everyone apparently having left. It was probably quite the show, Josie taking the only thing she had left. The show they all wanted. The door slams shut loudly, making the overhead light flicker. 

She inwardly screams, kicking against a cardboard box labeled ‘ _Clarke’s crafts_ ’ as she presses the palms of her hands against her eyes. She curses as a sharp pain immediately shoots up her leg, and she’s thankful she finally has a reason for her eyes to sting with tears. She hasn’t let herself cry in months, forced herself to be stronger than that.

Turning around, she stares at the presents lined up on the shelf, like they’re taunting her. Angrily, she yanks the one that looks like it was wrapped by a toddler off it, tearing off the paper within seconds. She can hardly see through the blur of tears.

Her heart sinks as she blinks at the box in her hand, a small card attached to it. Instinctively, she knows what’s inside. She opens it with trembling hands. There, she finds her father’s watch.

It’s a present her grandfather got him after he graduated from grad school with a degree in engineering. In her fondest memories of her dad, he was always wearing the watch proudly. It was always too big on her, but she refused to take it off. She was devastated after it slipped off her wrist and onto the concrete one day, cracking the crystal screen like a spiderweb. She cried for what felt like days. 

The band is wrapped around a soft, silk blue cushion. Instead of a new dial and hand, it’s been replaced with a picture of her and her dad. She’s smiling up at him, two front teeth missing, and there’s a smear of dark paint on his cheek, about the size of her fingers back then. She hasn’t picked up a brush since the day she found out he died. 

Regret pools in her gut instantly, and it makes waves of nausea roll up her body. She’s a horrible person. Gingerly, she tugs the card free from the box, and after she’s put down the watch, pulls it from the envelope it’s in. It’s pink, a silver crown on the front. The chunky glitter covering it sticks to her hand. 

Clarke starts to pry open the card, but immediately notices there’s more glitter inside. Careful to keep it even, she flips it open completely, and reads the words carefully. She can tell he’s made an effort, because in his usually barely deciperable scrawl, he’s written in block letters, _Make a wish, princess_ ;)

It’s now she notices the glitter inside is finer, like a million tiny little diamonds, colored like sand. She recognizes it. _Magic wishing dust._ A tear rolls down her cheek, a huff of watery laughter leaving her lips. When they were little, whenever one of them was sad because of a skinned knee or a bad grade, they used to scrape together the little pocket money they had and go to the mall, buy little packets of magic wishing dust. They’d wish for stupid things, like for everyday to be christmas, or for every meal to consist of cookies. 

Now Clarke knows better. She knows wishes aren’t real. There’s no such thing as magic. She’s never going to terribly lose a game of chess to Wells. Or hear her dad come home for work and meet him in the hallway for a hug. This house is never going to feel like home again. She’s never going to get Bellamy to forgive her, not after all the things she’s said, or perhaps hasn’t.

Holding the small card with both hands, she sinks back down onto the floor slowly, still staring at his handwriting as she finally lets the tears fall willingly, lets it all out. It’s a sweet relief for the burn in her eyes, but does nothing to still the throbbing behind them. She’s a mess.

Everything feels impossible. She wants for all of this to be over, all this ugly middle. She’s tired of growing up. She wants to skip ahead to the happy part, the one without worry, the part where she’s moved on to better things and doesn’t have to worry about stupid high school and petty drama. The part where she’s a person, a person she can be proud of, a person who’s unconditionally _loved_. 

Closing her eyes, she blows, like they’re candles on the cake she never got, blows away all the dust, and makes a wish.

* * *

_Clarke’s apartment_

_2020_

She’s late, Clarke instantly and instinctively recognizes the feelings as she stirs awake, heart pounding loudly at the realization. She groans into her pillow, reaches over to shut off her blaring alarm. Instead of her nightstand, her fingers stumble upon something soft. Warm. 

Panic crawling up her throat, her hand hovers in the air, frozen, and she slowly lifts her head. There, inches beneath her fingers, is a face. Belonging to a human. Woman. Pretty.

Human woman in her bed, with a face. Clarke scrambles upright, dark blankets pooling around her hips. She’s naked. Why is she naked? Those are not her blankets. What the hell happened? She looks down at her body, frowns at the scar on her lower belly. Delicately, she runs her finger over it. When did she get that? How did she miss getting that?

The light catches on her hand as she gawks at the scar, or _something_ on her hand, and her brain shuts down again as she now notices the expensive-looking, unfamiliar rings decorating each finger. She lifts the hand up to her face, observes them meticulously. Some of them look like solid gold, littered with real diamonds. 

What in the hell?

The woman suddenly blinks her eyes open, slowly, reaching over to shut off the alarm beside her easily. Her mouth moves. Clarke stares at her in horror, realizing now that the blood rushing through her veins at lightning speed is blocking out all sound. She forces herself to breathe, in through her nose, out through her mouth. Tries to remember her countless grief counseling therapy sessions, but the memories are kind of hazy, far in the back of her mind.

“Clarke? What’s wrong?” The woman tries again, eyes flicking over to the alarm clock as she sits up, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “You’re supposed to be on your way by now.”

She knows her name. And she’s naked too. Clarke flushes as her eyes flick up towards the ceiling, pursing her lips in humiliation. Something hard is tossed into her lap. Figuring it’s safe to look down, she finds a rectangular object. She sends the other woman a curious look. 

The brunette rolls her eyes, before swinging her legs out of the bed, stretching her long arms, “Seriously, I hardly think Kane will accept another absence.”

Clarke taps on the object, and it lights up with a picture of her and the other woman. As soon as she holds it up to her face to inspect it more closely, it ‘ _unlocks_ ’ and a whole new world opens. Seeing the phone earpiece icon on the bottom of the screen, she realizes it’s a phone.

Starting there, she clicks the icon. It opens a ‘favorites’ tab, only two names there. ‘ _Abby Griffin_ ’ and ‘ _Lexa DuFort_ ’. Clicking on the latter, just a guess, a picture of the naked brunette appears. A shower turns on in the distance, and Clarke clutches the phone in her hand tightly as she examines the room she’s in closely.

This has to be some sort of a fever dream. Or someone is playing a terrible prank on her. Maybe she slipped and fell on her head. Perhaps she even died. 

Slowly getting up from the bed, limbs feeling shaky, she walks around the room curiously. The room is mostly bare, except for the essentials, impersonal. Opening a door, she finds a walk-in closet. There’s rows and racks and shelves full of clothing, bags and shoes. All the clothes inside are dark, mostly black. Slipping the silk nightgown over her somehow even fuller frame than she’s used to, she puts on the first comfortable looking thing she finds, slipping into a pair of black boots. When reaching up to try and braid her hair back from her face, she finds half of it is missing. She doesn’t know exactly _what_ is going on, but it’s clear _Lexa_ doesn’t seem to think there’s something wrong. 

She’ll find out soon enough. If there is a reason this is happening, she’ll have to find out about it somehow or there’s no point to it all. Either the ghost of her birthday past comes knocking, or she’ll wake from this coma in a few hours and Lexa turns out to be her nurse. 

Compartmentalizing, her personal talent, always finds a way to come in handy.

Stepping out of the bedroom, she finds the brunette in the hallway, droplets of water rolling down the bare expanse of her delicately tattooed back, fingernail tapping something on a screen on the wall. Only wearing a towel, another one lodged in her hand, she turns at the sound of her footsteps, looking her up and down curiously before her gaze turns harsher.

“Clarke,” Lexa frowns at her, toweling her hair dry with an annoyed look on her face. She does another double-take at her blue henley and biker boots. Her eyes linger on her pulled back hair. “The driver’s been calling for fifteen minutes now.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, not really sure how to act around her. She’s gorgeous, but Clarke doesn’t know her and she’s seen her naked. This has never happened to her. Besides, the vibe between them is sort of — chilly. “I’m going.”

“Clarke!” She calls out, and the blonde pivots around quickly, fingers curling into fists, holding her breath. She doesn’t know what will happen if the woman finds out she’s an imposter. Lexa’s frown deepens, nodding at the table against the wall in the middle of the space in between them like Clarke is losing her mind. Clarke _is_ losing her mind. Matter-of-factly, she raises her eyebrows, “Your purse?”

“Right,” she states, stalking back the few feet, yanking the black Michael Kors bag off the table. She doesn’t know the designer, but it looks and feels expensive. 

She licks her chapped lips, stares at Lexa with wide eyes. She’s not sure what she would usually do in this moment, with a woman who’s obviously her partner. The brunette tilts her head, but doesn’t say anything. Clarke’s voice sounds strange when she quips, “Bye.”

“Hmm,” she just says, still watching her warily. 

The door slams shut behind her, not being able to get away fast enough.

At least she finds the car easily enough, the driver greeting her with a short, ‘ _Miss Griffin_ ’ without making any eye contact. At least her name is still the same. Upon sliding onto the backseat, she immediately starts digging through the contents of the purse, finding an ID in the matching black, designer wallet. 

Same name and birthdate. She checks the phone again, for the first time reading the date and actually taking in the information. 2020. That means she’s… thirty. Like a tidal wave crashing into her, it all clicks into place. The basement. The light flickering. A big intake of breath. Speckles of magic wishing dust. The wish she made. The happy part. 

She feels _far_ from happy right now, but that’s mostly because she is confused. Maybe it’ll all make sense when she has all the information, when the memories return or she is reminded of the past, maybe it’ll slot into place like pieces of a puzzle and it’ll all just be _right._

The car comes to a stop in front of the back entrance of a hospital, name matching the shiny plastic badge she found inside the purse. _Clarke Griffin, M.D. | Surgery, Resident_. In the picture, she’s covered in thick layers of makeup, hair straightened and perfectly styled, eyes dull with a smile, just lips, no teeth. 

Hesitantly, she leaves the safety of the car. She stares up at the building, swallowing tightly. Deciding to follow the horde of hurried people inside, halfway there someone grabs hooks their arm around hers.

“Griffin,” they say in greeting. She would recognize that voice anywhere, belonging to no one other than Josephine Lightbourne. A chill runs up her spine. “Up late drinking again? You look horrible.”

“No,” she says, already annoyed. What is she even doing here? Her eyes drop to the badge in Josie’s hands. Right. Of fucking course. Josie _would_ be the one she couldn’t escape, no matter how hard she tried. “Just woke up late.”

“You were already late,” she tuts preachingly, pulling her along as she makes a sharp left. Her hair is still long, but she has bangs now. Fuller lips, too. Even skinnier than she’s used to. “A little makeup wouldn’t have hurt.”

Josie tugs her into a small rustic changing room, pushing her into the direction of a locker that spells out her last name. Like it’s something she’s done a million times before, muscle memory seems to kick in and Clarke quietly gets dressed into her blue scrubs and white coat, a numb feeling in her chest. The stethoscope feels cold against her neck.

A bearded, important looking man storms into the room after a few minutes, starting his morning introduction Clarke mostly tunes out, trying to make sense of this life she’s chosen for herself. In the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a wide gaping hole. Something’s missing. 

Josie’s sharp elbow digs into her ribs, drawing her attention to the end of the speech with a wiggle of her eyebrows, “...remind you, it’s just four weeks until the fellowship positions are announced. If you haven’t applied, you should’ve found out by now if you’re allowed to stay as on as a general resident or will have to apply for a position elsewhere.” The man’s voice is compelling, and his name tag reads he is Dr. Kane, chief of surgery. Strangely, he never looks her way.

“Uhm,” Clarke clears her throat, glancing over at Josie, keeping her voice low. “What one did we sign up for again?”

  
“I knew you lied to me, you alcoholic,” she gushes, almost excitedly, her shiny curled hair falling down her shoulders. There’s still that tone to her voice, that slightly proud and victorious quality that indicates Clarke is somehow losing a game she doesn’t even know she’s a part of. “Your poor liver.” Her brows rise, lips pursed unimpressed at her still not catching on and spitting out the answer. “We’re both vying for the orthopaedic traumatology spot?”

Spot. As in singular. Clarke’s forehead creases in confusion. “Both of us?”

  
“Little competition never killed anyone,” she smirks like the cat that got the canary, but it looks off. Clarke doesn’t push it, instead follows her to join her for rounds as soon as Kane nods towards the door, finishing his speech with a line about it being another perfect day for them to excel and challenge themselves.

They stop in front of a big glass window, looking at young woman on a bed, all kinds of tubes connected to her head and limbs, monitors beeping around her. Her face covered in scars and bruises, her matted dark hair filthy with old blood and dirt, an external fixator around one of her legs and one of her arms in a cast. Pins stuck in her forehead and attached to a halo-frame. 

“Dr. Santiago, please present the patient.”

It’s only now she realizes her and Josie aren’t the only two doctors in the room following Kane. Gabriel is here, too. Grown even taller, beard now decorating his face. His voice bored as he explains the patient’s status.

“Mel Payne, 19 years old. Day 366 after suffering a major trauma with an ISS score of 29. Found by two campers after a five story drop down a cliff, allegedly the product of a fight with her boyfriend. Multiple orthopedic, abdominal, vascular, spinal, plastic and neurosurgeries, including a exploratory laparotomy, a hemiarthroplasty, two spinal fusions and over twelve debridements and skin grafts, of which most recently, a c-section 182 days ago. Baby did not survive. Initially looked to be having minor brain trauma, but suffered multiple bleeds from a post-surgery infection, becoming septic with cerebral focal points. Currently finished with antibiotics for over 120 days. Remains in a persistent vegetative state. Plan, uncertain.”

A lump starts to form in Clarke’s throat, thicker and thicker with each word Gabriel says as her eyes fixate on the girl’s face through the window. Through all the scars and tubes and obvious suffering, she’s still pretty, pure. So young. Too young. And still a part of her somewhere realizes this is the end of the road before Kane even speaks. 

“Day 366, which means today is the day we tell the family that medically, there is no more hope.”

“No more hope?” Clarke’s voice is barely above a hoarse whisper. She feels sick, the back of her mouth tasting like bile. People look at her like she’s insane. Maybe she is. Yesterday, her life was different. A year ago, Mel’s life was different too.

“The prognosis of individuals recovering from a vegetative state of a duration longer than three months is only 2% twelve months post-injury,” an overeager medical student speaks up. “Among this group, over 90% will be left with severe disabilities.”

It’s percentage after percentage, numbers and statics, and all Clarke can see is this girl, wonder what she looked when she smiled. If it was quiet and reserved, or if it lit up an entire room. Before someone took it from her. Yet, realistically, Clarke still knows they’re right. She just wishes they’d be a little more sorry about it.

“Good job, Myles,” Kane concludes with a nod of his head, obviously moving on. “This case provides an amazing learning opportunity when it comes to breaking terrible news to loved ones, which today we will be doing once her parents arrive for visiting hours. The lead is between Dr. Lightbourne and Dr. Griffin,” his gaze lingers on Josephine, almost hesitant, “and I feel like this would be a case perfect for you—” His eyes harden as they land on her, and Clarke’s heart actually stops beating. _No_. 

It takes her mind a minute to actually recuperate after the initial shock, muscles kicking back into force as she follows Kane out into the hallway after telling Josie a quick, “Excuse me.” She pushes open the double doors leading to the staircase, making him freeze as she pleads, “Dr. Kane, sorry, but do you—”

He holds up a hand in the air as if to keep her from coming closer, a dark resigned look on his face. “Clarke. This has to stop. I can’t keep favouring you. People are going to start to notice.”

Her entire world spins on its axis once again. “I don’t,” she starts, and then stops, shakes her head as she wills her mind into pulling it together. There has to be a reason for this. She has to trust _she_ had a reason for all of this. “I just wanted to ask if you think you could give this one to Dr. Lightbourne.”

He scoffs, loud and full of disbelief, pressing his folded hands to his mouth for a second, a lock of hair falling in front of his eyes. “Yesterday you tell me to give you the lead on this case, and now you want Josephine to have it?” He hisses, then lowers his voice, taking a treating step closer, “One of these days, your mom is going to get caught and I’m not going to take the fall for her again.”

Clarke opens her mouth, stammering. Then closes it again, not sure what to say when she doesn’t even know what the hell is going on. “I understand.”

Kane nods, once, straightening the sides of his white coat before disappearing down the stairs. Clarke slinks off back to the room she sees the last of the residents slip into, ending up in the middle of a long queue for a coffee machine along side Josie. 

“Rough case,” Gabriel comments offhandedly as he passes the people in front of them, pressing down the final lid of one of the three coffee cups in the plastic holder in his hand. Clarke feels dead on her feet, like she’s hovering outside of her body. He hands her one of them before holding out the holder to Josie as an afterthought.

“Ah, that’s okay,” the guy walking up behind him says in a tone that implies they’re friends. He’s tall, long brown hair pulled back in a bun. Practically growls when he talks. Eyes shining with amusement and a certain kind of admiration. “The Ice Queen is in charge. She’s got it handled.”

“That’s right,” Josie says, nostrils flaring even though there’s a smile on her face as she yanks the coffee cup from the holder. “Whenever you need someone heartless, you page Dr. Griffin.”

Her feet feel like lead. She wants to push it, ask them what it means, but some part of her feels like they think she is in on the joke. Like she goes around proudly claiming the title. That she finds pride in being called cruel. 

Sick to her stomach, she explains to the patient’s family there is no treatment left that could possibly fix their daughter. It’s like tearing open a wound that just started to heal, even if they lost their daughter, the person she was, a long time ago. They cry and sob for what feels like hours, and Clarke doesn’t know how to console them with anything but patience and truth. Strangely enough, she can respond to their questions with medically accurate answers like the information comes naturally to her, stored away into some part of her brain she can’t touch consciously. The universe is not completely against her, at least.

The mother actually _thanks_ her, squeezes her hand and pulls her into a hug, leaving a wet mark on her shoulder. It burns a hole in her skin the entire time she stands there, waiting for the machines to be turned off and for Mel’s body to give in. 

Rushing off to the nearest on-call room, she throws up in the bin beside the door. Taking a water bottle off a nearby table, she gulps half of it down in one go, her cheeks hot. She recaps the water, presses it against her forehead in hopes it’ll help her calm down. She can’t afford to break down right now.

Suddenly, two hands slide around her waist, and she startles, dropping the bottle on the floor. It rolls away, coming to a stop against the leg of one of the bunkbeds with a dud. 

Lips move of the column of her neck, and Clarke shoves the hands off, turning around with a whirl. The table digs into her ass as she stares up at Gabriel with wide eyes. His grin widens, and he leans down to capture her mouth with his, large body covering hers completely. She freezes for a few long, confusing seconds, then her brain kickstarts, and she pulls back roughly. His thumb moves over her wet bottom lip, his eyes darkening, “It’s okay. I locked the door. We have time.”

Her heart stops. “To do what?”

His lecherous grin grows puzzled, fingers of one hand tapping a rhythm on the exposed skin of her hip. “Have sex?”

Clarke coils further away from him, and the most obvious protest that comes to mind is, “I’m a virgin.”

His hand slides back over her hip, cupping her ass firmly. His eyes gleam in the low light. “Oh, we’re roleplaying.” He leans back down, licking a stripe up her neck before taking her earlobe into his mouth, breath hot against her ear as he whispers, “I like it.”

Clarke is so confused. This is her life? This is the life she’s been waiting for all this time? The end goal she was working towards? She tells people there’s no hope and relishes in their misery and then proceeds to hook up with someone in an on-call room like it all means absolutely nothing. Like Mel is nothing. Like death is nothing. Like she _feels_ nothing. Is proud of being _empty_. 

Panicked, she shoves him off, rushing out of the room, door slamming shut behind her loud enough to mask the sound of his voice as he calls out after her. She’s not even sure where she’s going, just knows she has to get away. Her mind flashes to one single thing, one single purpose. All she wants to run to is him — Bellamy. 

Pulling her new phone from one of the pockets of her white coat, she searches for his number in her phone. It comes up empty. Frowning, she pulls down the search bar at the top of the screen and types in ‘phone book’. A site pops up, and Clarke realizes it’s the internet which is a far cry from not being able to use the phone while playing solitaire online. She types his name in the grey bar on the top of the screen, finding his address easily enough. 

She doesn’t even bother telling anyone where she is going after she’s changed back into her own clothes. She doesn’t want this to be her life, can’t imagine spending the rest of it here. This is never the destination she set out to get to. She always imagined — something _different._ She has to find a way to make it all better, either that, or go back to her old one. Do it all over.

Hauling a cab, she’s over to his building within half an hour. One, two knocks on the door. Three. Nothing yet. Four, five. It opens, a beautiful curly haired brunette woman on the other side laughing quietly at her impatience. She’s wearing pink scrubs. Her smile is kind, and something a lot like recognition flashes across her eyes. 

“Is Bellamy here?” Clarke asks, once she swallows away the tight feeling in her throat and finds her voice. 

The woman’s smile widens, a teasing tilt of her head. “I recognize you from the pictures.”

It’s not the answer she was expecting. It’s like the woman is explaining basic math to her, and Clarke doesn’t even know the outcome of one plus one. “Huh?”

“Clarke, right?” Another breath of beautiful laughter. “You really rocked the whole no front tooth thing, but I have to say I like this look better.”

Hope, against every cell in her body knowing better, blooms in her chest. If he still has pictures with her — maybe he doesn’t hate her. Maybe he has a nickname he goes by, and that was the reason he wasn’t a contact in her phone. Maybe he refuses to use phones, simply because people in Roman times didn’t have them either. He _would_ be a nerd like that. 

“Thanks,” she breathes, distracted, looking inside over the woman’s shoulder in an attempt to see any sign of her best friend. Now she’s this close to seeing him, her entire body is on high alert, desperate almost.

“I’m Gina.” She offers her a hand. Absentmindedly, Clarke shakes it, still trying to catch a glimpse of the interior. “Bellamy’s fiancée.”

Clarke stops in her tracks, gaze pulled back to her face. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Suddenly, she’s looking at Gina like she’s a different person. She’s gorgeous. Kind. Funny. Perfect for Bellamy. The ring around her left finger gleams in the fluorescent hallway light. “Oh.” As an obvious afterthought, she adds hoarsely, “Congrats.”

“Bell?” Gina calls as she steps back into the apartment, obviously inviting her in, reaching for the keys in the bowl beside the door. 

A second, and then there’s the familiar sound of his baritone, somehow even deeper than before, even muffled through the layers of walls and doors. “Yeah?” 

He emerges from a different room, and — there he is. _Bellamy_. She needs a second to catch her breath at the sight of him. Obviously older, but somehow still as boyishly looking as before. Just clad in pants and a black t, dark glasses perched on top of his freckled nose. Those are completely new. His skin is darker almost, golden like it’s covered in a hue of sunlight. 

Clarke is afraid to look at him, but braves it. Only there’s nothing to see. No sadness or happiness or even anger. Or maybe she doesn’t know how to read his face anymore. Just a blank slate as he walks up beside his fiancée.

“Someone here to see you,” Gina informs him as she leans up, kisses him goodbye quickly. “I’m off to work.”

He grins at her, tells her to be safe, then turns back to Clarke. There’s a few seconds before the door shuts behind them, and then they’re really alone. Them, and this heavy cloud of tension in the air making it hard to breathe. He leans his hip against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Stares her down. “What’s up?”

“So, you’re engaged? Bellamy Blake, _engaged_ ? When I last saw you, you couldn’t keep a girlfriend for longer than two weeks,” she jokes, weakly, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. She has the faint urge to start biting her nails, but she stuffs them into the pockets of her jacket instead.  
  


He remains impassive. “That was a long time ago.”

It strikes her that it really _has_ been a long time for him. Yesterday for her, is what? Fourteen years ago for him. And it doesn’t seem like they’ve been in much contact since. 

Apparently it takes her too long to answer, because he pushes himself off the wall, closing more of the distance between them. “What are you doing here, Clarke? I haven’t heard from you in over a decade,” he rakes her face, mostly sounding confused. 

He’s not even upset with her, which makes it all the more horrible. He moved on. They might as well be two strangers. She made a mistake. She shouldn’t have come here. She shouldn’t have yelled at him. Should’ve never went into that stupid closet— 

Clarke shakes her head, forcing herself to remain in the here and now as she presses a hand to her forehead. She walks over to a nearby loveseat, sinks down on top of it. All the furniture is mismatched, obviously thoroughly used. There’s pictures of smiling people covering every available surface. Here, it smells like there’s fresh cookies permanently being baked in the oven. It’s a home. 

He gives her another few seconds before taking pity on her. Her lip is trembling with the effort of trying to keep herself from bursting out in tears in front of him. “Clarke?”

“Sorry. For barging in. It’s just—” She swallows harshly, blinking up at the ceiling to will the tears away. Her voice shakes as she looks at him again, wonders how they can be in the same room and still feel like they’re in different worlds completely. “I can’t remember the last fourteen years.”

“What? Are you okay?” He demands and immediately comes over to her, sits down beside her on the love seat. She pretends not to notice how he tries to keep as much distance from her as possible, even as he rakes her body for any signs of injury. His hand lingers in the air for a second before he puts it back down beside him. “Did you have an accident?”

“Something like that,” she mumbles, the end muffled as she starts rubbing her face with both hands. She wishes it was as simple as that. That she had a reason for having this life, being this person. That the more obvious answer is not that _this_ , this is who she is. 

He fiddles with his hands in his lap. Bellamy’s voice is quiet, but surprisingly not at all judgemental as he curiously presses, “Why come here?”

“I was hoping—” Clarke cuts herself off, closing her eyes for a second as she lets out a slow, heavy breath. She can’t tell him he’s the first person she thinks of when in danger, can she? That he is her safe place. The person she runs to. “I don’t know. Maybe you could fill in the blanks.” 

She cringes. Fill in the blanks? He couldn’t have made it more obvious that they are nothing. _Have_ nothing. 

“I don’t know what to tell you. We haven’t spoken since that fight at your sixteenth birthday party. We never made up,” he informs her, voice a little rough around the edges like there’s still some old hurt there. “I tried to say goodbye to you before I went off to college, but you refused to speak to me.” He clenches his jaw, even if the corners of his mouth are still turned up in what he’s trying to pass off as amusement as the old versions of the two people sitting here on his loveseat. “Didn’t even open the door.” 

The worst part is — it _sounds_ like her. Not this version of Clarke she somehow ended up being, but the earlier version. Herself. Easier to hide than face her feelings. She presses her lips together, brushing her hair away from her eyes as she turns her head to look at him. _Really_ look at him. It’s obvious there’s nothing left for her here, but she doesn’t want to go. Not yet. “What did you study?”

He placates her, thankfully, some of the fight leaving him as his previously straight shoulders hunch over a little. “History.”

“Makes sense,” she smiles shakily, close-lipped, the best she can do. 

It’s not returned. He keeps his distance, probably right to. “I’m a teacher.”

“That’s great,” she answers, genuine, flattening her clammy palms over her thighs. He always did have a talent for making even the most stubborn kids listen to him. 

“I’m surprised you came here,” he says after an awkward silence, like it’s not already glaringly obvious he has this whole life without her. That she has no place in it. He has Gina, and it’s hard to pretend she isn’t jealous of her. They have nothing to say to each other. Not really.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, hastily rising to her feet, suddenly not even sure why she thought she could come here. Waltz back into his life like nothing happened, when the only thing she does is remember is the day it all fell apart. “I don’t know why either.” Lie. Her voice trembles, maybe her hands do too, she’s not sure of anything anymore. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Clarke—” He starts, standing up too, some of that familiar worry there. His dark eyes deepen, and something in her chest splits in half. 

She waves him of, already making a beeline for the door, “No, it’s fine.” 

She opens the door and he doesn’t stop her. She rushes off into the hallway and he doesn’t chase her, make sure she’s okay. She’s pushed him away too many times. The pain in her chest just grows and grows, until it seems to swallow her whole. 

If this is her new reality, she better get used to it. Fast. 

* * *

**[03:05 PM]**

> _ugh feel so fat, have nothing to wear for tonight_

**[03:06 PM]**

> _fucking hate these dumb fundraiser galas_

**[03:06 PM]**

> _my dad donated enough money for two whole wings last year and you mean to tell me they ran out already?_

**[03:06 PM]**

> _can’t even get hot coffee on every floor jesus christ maybe prioritize first_

Josie’s been blowing up her phone all afternoon, begging her to help pick out what dress to wear and sending her various photos of gowns with the price tags still on. Clarke is obviously supposed to attend this fundraiser, too, but she hasn’t found a way to text Josie and ask her about it that doesn’t make her come across as a crazy person. If she’s here to stay, she can’t have the people closest to her think she’s mentally insane.

So, she braves it during dinner instead.

“Lexa,” she clears her throat, uneasy, looking up from the food on her plate. Lexa just looks at her as she slowly chews her string beans, face blank. Up until now, they’d been eating the dinner Lexa served them from plastic boxes in complete silence. Nothing about it felt off, even. Clarke takes a gamble. “Our dresses, for tonight, where did we leave them?”

“In the back of my closet,” Lexa reveals, simple, right to the point as she takes a sip of her water.

Clarke lets out a sigh of relief, giving her a small nod. Okay, so at least they were planning on going. Lexa is coming along. Although she doesn’t know exactly what they are, nor is she the warmest person to be around, she can’t say she’ll mind having a friendly face around. 

They continue dinner in silence. There’s no questions about how their day was, or amical discussions about their favorite tv shows, or the weather. There was no kiss hello, barely just a nod in acknowledgement. Clarke doesn’t understand how she could ever be happy like this, how this could be enough. But it seems like it’s going to have to be.

“You look good,” Lexa tells her reflection in the mirror, putting on her earring as she closes some of the distance between them. The dress she is wearing is covered in dark blue sequins all the way to the floor, with a sweetheart neckline that is making her feel borderline exposed. Her long, small fingers skim her bare back briefly, her fingers cold but firm, insistent, almost like she is undeniable. This is the first time anyone has touched her like that, with purpose, _wanting_. “Want to get it on later?”

Clarke can’t help but flush, her neck turning a splotchy kind of red as she firmly keeps her gaze fixed on the mirror. Lexa helped curl her hair earlier, and she tucks it behind her ears on each side nervously. Having to look at Lexa for real kind of sounds like the worst thing imaginable right now. This is all still sounds like a fantasy. A fantasy she never knew she had or wanted, at least not when she was sixteen.

She can understand why she would like Lexa. She’s pretty, really pretty. Tall, with piercing green eyes and long wavy hair. Maybe the prettiest girl she’s ever seen. Especially in the long black square neck dress she’s wearing, a split on the side showing off her long legs. But she doesn’t know what made her stay beyond that. It’s frustrating, having only part of the information, not being able to understand _herself_. 

“No, uhm,” she clears her throat, stalling, not sure what to say. Do people just _schedule_ sex? Is that a thing? At least she’s glad for the heads up. She’s not sure what she would’ve done if Lexa just pounced on her tonight. “That’s okay.”

Lexa nods, once, curt, like this is a regular thing they do. Talk about when they want to have sex like they’re making a dentist appointment. She picks up the next earring, and Clarke lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

They sit on opposite ends of the limo on the way to the hospital in silence. Clarke can’t even say the silence is uncomfortable. There really just is nothing to say. It’s just there. 

The music that comes booming from inside is weird. It’s all a little bit more upbeat and electronic than she’s used to. Waiting in line to hand over their jackets, Clarke observes the ballroom hall decorated with extensive red garlands and banners reading the hospital’s name, crawling with waiters holding trays with hors d'oeuvres or expensive looking liquor. 

There, in the middle of it all, she finds Bellamy sitting at one of the tables. The sight of him strikes her like a lighting bolt, handsome in his suit as he sips on a flute of champagne. Before she can wonder what he is doing here, she spots the curly haired girl in a sparkling gold dress whispering something in his air, funny enough to make him smile that boyish grin of his. _Gina_. 

Her and Lexa make their way towards the ballroom while she ignores the nervous stutters in her chest, holding polite and boring conversations with important looking people as they make their rounds. It’s funny how she hasn’t heard Lexa talk this much before, how she seems to know these people better than her. One of them even addressing her as _‘representative DuFort’_ teasingly, like they’re old friends. It explains all the pantsuits in her closet. It strikes her how little she really knows about Lexa, even her own life by default. 

Her girlfriend tells her she’s going to get them another drink, so Clarke slinks off towards a corner, taking a deep breath as she lets her eyes slide shut and her head lean back against the wall. She never _thought_ this would be her life. Her phone buzzes in her purse, but she doesn’t bother checking it. She needs a second. 

Suddenly two hands slide across her hips, making her eyes spring open. It takes her a second to recognize him, almost like her body is on survival mode. “Gabriel?” She sounds slightly panicked, because she is. He bends down, pulling her hips into his as he presses a kiss to her exposed collarbone. Anyone could see. _Lexa, Josie._ “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, nuzzling her neck. Her heart pounds so heavily she is afraid it’s trying to break free from her ribcage. “Jo is busy kissing Indra’s ass and I just passed Lex, there’s a long line at the bar.”

Her breath hitches as the pieces of the puzzle all fall together. The obvious tension between the three of them. The ring around his finger cold against her bare skin. Him equating Josie to Lexa, her girlfriend. It means that Josie and Gabriel — they’re still together. It means she was not only willingly cheating on _Lexa_ , but was also making her best friend’s husband cheat on her. She doesn’t care what ever made her think that was okay, she just know she doesn’t think it is now. Revolt makes her stomach churn uncomfortably. 

Clarke tries to push him off, squirming underneath him as she looks over his shoulder to make sure no one she knows is watching them, but he just tightens his fingers around her hips, nips at the column of her neck. “Come on, Clarke, I know the thought of being caught turns you on.”

It’s now she catches Bellamy’s eye for the first time, his dark eyes framed by his furrowed brows. He is disappointed, or disgusted. Maybe both. Suddenly she feels even sicker. Her skin pricks with anxiety. She can’t bear the thought of him thinking she is this, this _person_ . If she can even call it that. This life, it’s a scam, it’s a shell of the person who she thinks she is. _Was_. 

“Josie is coming,” she seethes, finally succeeding on pushing him off. She’s still wiping his spit of her neck as Josephine slides up to them with a hardened smile, arm slipping around Gabriel’s back. He adjusts his tie, doesn’t even look at his wife. Clarke is too on edge to check if Bellamy is still watching them.

“Clarke,” she says, a weird tone to her voice, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek as a greeting. “You look gorgeous.”

“So do you,” Clarke pipes out, sounding small. Her voice nearly shakes, body still pumping adrenaline through her veins. No matter how terrible Josie is, she doesn’t deserve this.

“I don’t even _want_ to know how much spandex you’re wearing right now to pull it off,” Josie jokes with a cheshire grin and a nudge of her hand into her arm, and Clarke laughs along no matter how backhanded the compliment is. She wants to get through this, fast, easy. Get away from them, these people, this place. Go home. Even if she doesn’t even know where that is. 

Her eyes flick back over to Bellamy, but he’s not at his table anymore. 

They make small talk for a few minutes before Lexa slides back up to them, nodding at them. This time, her fingers fold around Clarke’s shoulder the farthest away from her. The touch is deliberate, possessive, meant to tell the others in their presence something. The air around them grows awkward, hostility evident. 

  
There’s some commotion on the middle of the dancefloor, and it takes Clarke a second to find the cause of it. A woman and a security guard are going at it. As soon as she does, she’s pushing past Lexa, leaving her with Gabriel and Josie. Something she’ll pay for sooner or later, but she’s too distracted by the sight of her, “Mom?”

“Clarke!” She shoves the empty champagne flute at the security guard trying to escort her out, his hand slipping off her elbow as her mother flings her arms around her neck in greeting. She feels hard under Clarke’s body, all sharp edges, just skin over bone. There’s a stain on the front of her black dress, half of her hair falling from the bun on the back of her head, mascara smudged under her eyes. She doesn’t look well. “I’ve tried calling you! You weren’t picking up.”

She sends the security guard a polite smile, hoping to appease him long enough to figure out what’s happening as her fingers tighten around her mother’s elbows. “What are you doing here?”

She straightens her shoulder, pats down her hair as a sneer starts to form on her face. “I helped build this hospital up from the dump it was to the global organisation it is now. I belong here.”

“Mom, I think it’s better if you go home,” Clarke urges, lowering her voice. She doesn’t know this version of her mom, not technically, but she knows what she looks like when she’s drunk off her ass. 

Immediately, Abby pulls back from her if scorned, sending her a disgusted look. The tone in her voice is lethal, but nothing she hasn’t heard before. “It’s your fault, isn’t it? They would have invited me if it wasn’t for you being ashamed to be in the same room as me.” 

“Mom—” She starts to plead, hoping to talk some sense into her, but Abby is distracted, face lighting up as she calls out for someone in the distance. “Marcus!” 

Clarke follows her line of sight, finds Kane on the other end of it. He stares at them for a beat, as if seeing a ghost, then disappears towards the bathrooms. This seems clear — this is Clarke’s mess, and she’ll have to be the one to clean it up.

Clarke holds Abby back as she tries to follow Kane, gripping her arm tightly. Her cheeks burn with humiliation as she seems to feel almost everyone’s eyes on her. She’s had nightmares about this, about people finding out about her mother being — like _this_ . That Clarke failed in keeping her together. Pleading, voice breaking, “Mom, _please_. I think it’s better if you go home.”

Abby yanks her arm loose, digging her sharp fingernails into Clarke’s forearm, hard enough to make her wince. “I just need to talk to Marcus, just for a second. He promised me. I need this.”

She opens her mouth, but someone else beats her to it. “Dr. Griffin,” Bellamy exclaims, slipping his arm around her boney shoulders. “Long time no see.”

“Bellamy Blake?” Her mother pats his chest, smiling up at him almost dreamily. Her pupils are blown wide, even as he moves a little and the overhead light shines right into her face. She never used to be such a big fan of him, it surprises Clarke she’s letting herself be charmed by him. Maybe she’s just grasping a hold of the first person not treating her like an intruder. “Look at how you’ve grown.”

“Let’s get some fresh air while we catch up,” he tells her easily, guiding her towards the exit. Perhaps because he’s not Clarke, she actually listens, lets herself be lead off the dancefloor. 

Clarke tries to catch his eye, grateful, but he refuses to look at her, gaze fixated on her mother’s face as she starts to tell him about her life. Everybody is still looking at her though, and she nods at the security guard for him to follow her to the cloakroom. There she quickly makes up some bullshit story about her mother having an illness before promising it’ll never happen again. The guy doesn’t seem to believe her, from the sickening pity in his eyes, but nods anyway. 

Next, she goes outside, trying to find her mother. Instead, it’s just Bellamy, closing the door of a car before it drives off into the distance. He is still watching it drive away, one hand in his pocket, when she comes to a stop beside him. 

He turns his head to look at her slowly. Face unreadable again. “I called her an Uber. Promised her her friend, the Marcus person, would call her in the morning.”

Clarke lets out a sigh of relief, rubbing the back of her neck to release some of the tension there. Whatever happens, it’ll be tomorrow’s problem. Maybe she’ll have slept some of it off by then.

Suddenly, ‘thank you’ seems to be too heavy of a phrase to say. 

“I didn’t know you would be here,” she offers, lamely, a cold gust of wind making goosebumps appear across her arms. She’s not sure if it’s an apology, but it sounds like one.

After an awkward second, he speaks as if against his will, words almost robotic. “Gina’s works on the maternity ward. She’s a nurse.” Right. The pink scrubs. “We go to these things for the free booze and to make fun of people who come here unironically.”

“Right,” Clarke says, voice sounding like it’s coming from a million miles away as she hugs herself tightly.

“You okay?” Bellamy asks, and even if there’s some lingering hesitation in his voice, it surprises her nonetheless. When she looks up, she finds his eyes on her forearm. There’s angry red welts there in the shape of crescent moons, some of them caked with dried up blood. She didn’t even feel it until now, her entire body just numb after the encounter with her mother.

She waves it off, covering it up with her other hand in hopes of him letting it go. She doesn’t need him to fuss over her like he used to do. “Oh, yeah, don’t worry about it.” He looks away after another long second, meeting her eyes. 

“You should pick better friends,” Bellamy tells her quietly, licking his lips, and she’s grateful for the change of subject. She just wishes he picked any other topic. “Gina told me Josie was going around everywhere, trying to badmouth you to all the attendings.”

The mention of her name makes something ugly and mean bloom in the middle of her chest, remakes her visit some old hurt, too. There he goes again, treating her like she can’t possibly make her own decisions. Her face hardens, mouth setting in a straight line. “What makes you think you get to judge my friends?”

He scoffs, kicking at nothing as he makes a move to get back inside, “Fine, whatever. Don’t believe me.”

Like it’s something she can hold over him, she swivels around on her heels and bites, “You don’t know who I am.”

He doesn’t even get angry. He just looks sad when he turns back to look at her. “I know I don’t.” One more look, then he’s twisting back around to go inside. To Gina. Perfect, understanding, gold dress wearing, maternity ward nurse _Gina_. 

Clarke stays outside until her fingers feel numb from the cold. On her way back inside, she runs into that growling guy from a few days ago. He smells like wine, his teeth white as he smirks at her and whistles lowly. “Nice dress, Griffin.”

Not sure she’s ready to find out about herself she’s also been sleeping with _this_ guy, she pretends she hasn’t heard him, hugging herself even tighter. “Have you seen Josie?”

“Probably begging Indra to give her that fellowship again,” he laughs, like it’s a joke between friends. Like they’ve had this conversation before. “I’m surprised she hasn’t just dropped you letting people buy their way into your clinical trial yet.”

Bellamy was right, at least. And with the realization, it takes her another second to fully process the next revelation. 

“What?” She stammers, looking up at him in shock. Letting people… ?

He snorts, coldly with even so much as an inch of sympathy for the horrified look on her face. “What? We both know the only reason she hasn’t said anything yet is because her name is going to be on the final research paper. The cure for biological aging? That’s a gunner for us to win that Mount Weather Foundation Award.” He chuckles darkly, mostly to himself as he straightens the lapels of his expensive black suit jacket. He hasn’t realized Clarke has checked out of the conversation completely. His next words a distant echo in her mind, “Isn’t that all blondie wants? For her name to be known by everyone?”

She must make some sort of an affirmative noise, because he moves on further into the ballroom with a nod of his head. For a beat, Clarke stands there on the threshold between the hall and the hallways, on the outside looking in, and wonders how she turned into such a horrible person. She’s not willing to believe this was always her destiny. Something must have gone wrong. She must have made a mistake somewhere along the lines, said or did something that got her here. 

Her eyes find him automatically, Gina’s hand clasped around his as they dance to a slow song. He’s laughing, head thrown back. The light catches on her ring. 

Clarke tastes bile in the back of her throat. She turns on her heels, instinctively knowing she has to get away from this place, from these people. Briefly, she wonders how she can escape herself. 

* * *

Lexa doesn’t even ask her what happened at the party, nor does she bother asking her where she is going when she packs up a bag in the morning for the hour drive to her old childhood home. Marcus called her at six am, that he saw Abby last night at his place. Nearly woke up his wife, Callie, and the neighbours, begging on his doorstep. Told Clarke he filled her prescription for her to last another two weeks, before finally she took a cab home. 

Clarke can tell her and Abby aren’t close anymore, and not just from the repeatedly dodged calls in her phone log. It’s not like they were ever close, but Clarke used to feel warmly about her at least. Right now, all she feels is the need to check up on her. Make sure she’s okay after the fiasco that was last night. It’s the least thing she could do, after all that’s happened, caused her to fall apart, turn into _this_.

“What are you doing here?” Abby says harshly, opening the door in last night’s dress. Her hair is a bird’s nest on top of her head, dress pooled around her waist like she couldn’t be bothered to unzip it properly before falling asleep. There’s dark bags under her eyes, her cheeks hollowed as she squints at the daylight. 

Clarke’s sharp gaze hardens. “I came to check on you.”

She laughs, wholeheartedly. “That’s funny.”

At one point, she must have given up on her mom, left her to her own defenses. It seems like it only went downhill after. From what she gathered, Abby lost her right to practice medicine, her job at the hospital Clarke now reigns supreme and had an extramarital affair with Kane. Not only was Clarke blackmailing him, so was her mother, trying to get him to describe her oxy whenever she pleased so. He didn’t want his wife to find out, so he kept doing it. It’s sick, that she used her own mother’s misery to get ahead in her career.

Clarke follows her inside, sits down on the couch beside her mother as she watches her pour herself a glass of wine from a half-empty bottle standing beside the coffee table. She takes a large gulp, then leans back on the couch. Clarke loves her, so much, but only because it’s the most natural feeling in the world, one granted to her at birth. She hardly recognizes the person in front of her. She feels like it’s all her fault. 

Abby wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, stifling a burp. “If this is about last night, I’m not going to apologize.”

On the coffee table, there’s a razor and a mirror covered in the remnants of cut up morphine. It was never supposed to be like this. If Clarke did everything right, her mom would be okay. Tears form in her eyes as her fingers tighten around the bag in her lap. “For what it’s worth, mom, I’m sorry that I stopped trying.”

Abby snorts, rubs at the insides of her bloodshot eyes with her fingers, only smudging last night’s make up even more. “You give yourself too much credit. Always have.”

Her words startle her, her back ramrod straight against the couch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You weren’t the one that _broke_ me, Clarke. Your father did. He left me.” Her voice shakes with anger, and for the first time she is a person beyond her mother. A person who lost her husband. “I tried to fill the void. Tried to fill it with _you,”_ she spits it out like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and she’s a person who dislikes her, too, “and then the alcohol. And when even that wasn’t enough, eventually the pills.” She inhales sharply through her nose, closing her eyes briefly. “But it never completely stops. I never completely stop missing him.”

Clarke swallows tightly, heart aching like someone just left a gaping hole. Her fingers shake and she balls them into fists to keep her mom from seeing. “Why wasn’t I enough?”

“You tried too hard. You always have. Always tried to make me feel better, be the good guy.” Abby shakes her head, and this time the laugh leaving her chapped lips is bitter. “There are no good guys, at least you’ve figured that out now.” 

Something flashes across her eyes, something that makes Clarke believe that even through the haze of Abby’s high, she still realized how royally fucked up her daughter’s life was. Something a lot like pity. Her mom feeling sorry for _her_ , looking around the state of her old childhood home it’s pathetic. 

“You can’t blame me for wanting you to get clean,” Clarke argues, trying to defend herself, but her voice is only a shell of her own. All this time, she’s tried to be perfect, for her, and her mom didn’t even care. Was only thinking about her next fix.

Abby regards her for a long time before finally her eyes soften, and she reaches over to cup her chin. Her touch cold. “The truth is —” She presses her thin lips together, seems to think about whether or not she should be so cruel to stop telling her lies. In the end, she follows through, “Every time you tried to help me stop, make me get rid of the only thing that made me feel good anymore, I just felt like you were taking another thing from me.”

Clarke doesn’t feel much of anything. Everything feels like a distant memory already, her mother’s frail voice like it has to fight it’s way through layers of cotton in her ears as time seems to slow down until it doesn’t seem to exist at all. “Another?”

Abby’s hand drops into her lap, and she actually looks like she realizes how unfair the next words out of her mouth are, “If it wasn’t for you, your dad wouldn’t have been in that car.”

Unfair, but painful. She doesn’t even cry when she hears the words. Unfair, but true. Doesn’t argue, either. Just reaches up to wipe her cheeks dry with the palms of her hands, not even sure when they’d fallen. “And if it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t have had me, right?”

Abby actually looks regretful for a second. “He only agreed to marry me as long as kids were in the future.”

It’s not an answer to her question, but it’s enough of the truth for her to realize she has no business being here. That this house is no longer a place she belongs in, her mother no longer a person she belongs with. That for the first time in her life, Clarke is truly alone.

* * *

As soon as she gets back to the apartment, she starts to rummage through all of her stuff. Throws open cabinets and empties out all the storage boxes. Tries to find something, _anything_ that reminds her of the person she used to be. 

Finally, in one of the spare rooms, she finds some old painting supplies in a box stuffed in the back of a closet. Some of the paint is dried up in the tubes, but most of the brushes are still usable. There’s a dusty sketchbook, but the pages are full of drawings she made years ago. It seems like she hasn’t touched any of this in years. Like a different lifetime, since she last touched a charcoal pencil.

Putting her hair up in a ponytail, fingers itching to create something, she looks around the bare room, the empty walls, the unread non-fiction books stuffed in the single bookcase next to the door, the sleek black leather chair in another corner. She realizes she owns this place. She is technically an adult. She can do whatever she wants. 

So she uses the walls. Uses whatever color is still liquid, dips her brush in it and just _starts_. 

Abby never wanted her help, no matter how badly she tried to bend herself over backwards trying to fix her. Felt responsible for her mother’s well-being, cried when she cried, hurt when she hurt, got angry when she was angry. Remembers something Bellamy used to tell her, when she tried to get her first thrillseeker boyfriend Finn to stop joyriding to make a few extra bucks, or see a doctor after one of his countless car crashes. _You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved_. A completely different context, but the words have never made more sense to Clarke until now.

Lexa comes home late, the jangling of her keys alerting Clarke to her presence. It takes her another minute to find her inside their study. There’s relief on her face, then an immediate frown, “What the _hell_ , Clarke? I thought we got robbed.”

Distracted, Clarke steps back from her work, turning to look at her girlfriend as she pushes some hair back from her face with her wrist, careful not to stain it. “Sorry, I just—” A slow grin appears on her face. “I _needed_ this.”

“What? You just up and decided to start painting our _walls_? Couldn’t you have gotten a canvas at least?” Lexa observes the damage meticulously, running a hand over her mouth, disappointedly muttering something along the lines of, “I really thought you left this hobby behind.”

Clarke used to paint every day, and if she didn’t paint, she was drawing, or thinking of painting or drawing. Put her heart and soul in it. She never felt quite as alive as she did when she was putting it all out there, putting the images from her mind on paper. Or canvas. Or _walls_ . Making them real, touchable. Able to make other people _feel_ things. She can’t imagine why she ever let it go. Who she is without it. Her fingers flex at her side, the other hand tightening around her brush. This — no matter how stupid, makes her happy. Can’t Lexa see that? She smiles, not unkind. “Why do you love me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lexa snarls, like it’s the start of an argument they’ve had before, crossing her arms over the jacket of her burgundy pants suit. 

Clarke shrugs, suddenly feeling the emotional exhaustion of the past few days take over. “It’s just a question.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “I don’t know how to talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Do we know how to talk to each other at all?” Her gaze narrows, but she can’t find it in herself to pack much heat into her voice. How can she be mad at someone she barely knows? Who knows what she’s done to her, to them, to make them this way.

“Clarke, I can’t do this right now.” Lexa holds up both of her hands, then rolls her shoulders back, tightens her wavy ponytail. To be fair, she really does look stressed. “I have to be at work early tomorrow. Elections are coming up and I have a debate to prepare for.”

There’s a relief in finding out she never lost this part of herself, that maybe a small piece of the old Clarke is still alive. All she can do is hold into it. So she shakes her head, licking her lips as she decides, “Fine.”

It’s past 2 am once she figures it’s time to put down her brushes and go to bed. She stretches her arms and flexes her fingers, admiring the mural of the night sky and all the constellations she remembers on the wall staring back at her. It’s not her best work, but it felt good. To put it out there. To feel the tired ache of hard work in every one of her muscles.

Clarke puts away her painting supplies, going over to the bathroom to wash her hands and face. Careful not to wake up Lexa as she enters the bedroom, she pads into her closet as quietly as possible. It looks like a storm passed through in here, and she picks up a few items of clothing on her way to the shelf of pyjamas. 

Dropping down the clothes in a pile at her feet, her eye catches on a small box on a shelf near the back of the closet, only revealed because she knocked down six of the same designer pair of boots. Trying to find something. 

Well, there it is.

  
Heart beating fast, she walks over to it slowly, picking it up with trembling hands. Intuitively, she knows what is inside. She opens it, just to be sure she’s not betraying herself again. The metal lock clicks as she flips it open, revealing her dad’s watch and the picture of the two of them looking back at her. Even the card is still tucked inside of the box, except the edges are jagged and dark, like she tried to get rid of it at one point. 

Gingerly running a finger over the crystal, she smiles to herself, realizing that all this time, she kept it. It still meant something to her — no matter how hard she’d tried to pretend it didn’t. And she realizes that even now, she can’t let go.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Clarke knocks on the door. 

This time, Bellamy opens it. He says her name like a question.

All day at work, she’d been contemplating it. Clarke, even this version of Clarke, kept her dad’s watch. She kept it, but couldn’t bare to look at it. She hid it. The memory of the person who gave it to her probably still too painful. That meant something, it had to mean something. A part of her just thinks that — that maybe, that is where it all went wrong. The day she yelled at him and he stopped trying to understand why. The day she shut him out, and he stopped chasing her, trying to find a way back in.

So here she is, biting down on her lip nervously. “Can we talk?”

Bellamy searches her face for a long few seconds, then says nothing as he opens the door wider. He sits down on his couch, picking a carton of noodles back up. He doesn’t invite her to get comfortable, make herself at home or sit down, but she does anyway on the opposite end of the couch. 

It’s hot inside, the smell of Thai food making her stomach grumble even if the thought of eating right now just makes her belly churn. She shrugs out of her jacket, pushing it down her arms as she watches him for a second. She wishes he would say something. She wishes she knew what to say to _him_. Wishes that there wasn’t all this time and hurt and distance between them. Again, she reminds herself that wishes aren’t real. 

Just to break some of the awkward tension simmering in the air around them, she makes small talk, pushing up the sleeves of her sweater. “Where’s Gina?”

“She’s on night shifts this week,” he answers easily, and to her surprise there’s a kind enough expression on his face. At least he’s not annoyed she’s here, despite what she told him during their last encounter. 

She nods, to indicate she heard him and then he’s offering her a box of take-out food from the coffee table. She stares at it for a beat before taking it from him. Their fingers brush, but neither of them visibly reacts to it. 

Her pulse jumps, but she wills it to go down to a normal rate. For a while, they sit there in silence, eating their food and watching some lame history documentary he put on because some things never change. She puts down the chicken cashew, wiping her palms on her thighs before shifting on the couch to face him, back pressed into the arm rest. 

“I don’t want this to be my life,” Clarke confesses, keeping her gaze focused on a spot right beneath his chin. His adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “One day I woke up and I realized that this is my life and I should be happy.” On paper, it’s everything she ever wanted. Her dream job. Lifelong friends. A gorgeous girlfriend. Owning a huge apartment in a great part of town. Everything that would’ve made her mother proud. “But I’m not.”

He shifts as well, putting the carton down on the side table besides the armrest on his side. Bellamy exhales sharply through his nose, pinching the bridge of it. There’s more hesitation, like he’s struggling internally with himself. Then he looks at her, finally, frustration evident in every word. “Why come here, Clarke?”

She shrugs, half-heartedly. The easiest answer, “Because I realized I don’t have a place I can call home.” And he used to be hers.

He nods, slowly, averting his eyes as he processes it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he adjusts his position again, pressing himself against the back of the couch, arms crossed over his chest. His next sentence comes out almost begrudgingly, but at least he’s making an effort. “Gina got a job offer in a different city. They have some sort of specialized NICU, and she’s wanted to work there for ages. They have some good schools there, places I could make a difference. She wants me to come.”

Clarke swallows, digs her nails into her palms, and then pushes away her pride. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.” She sounds sincere, even. Despite it all, she does want that for him. To be happy.

He notices too, because he sighs, taking another try at looking her in the eye. “It’s never too late to turn your life around.” He tugs on his hair and she follows the movement of his hand. The curls are shorter than she’s used to, but it fits him. This more put together version of Bellamy. Her Bellamy, still. “I let Octavia walk all over me for years. Let her treat me like her punching bag because she was mad at the world, the universe — and I was an easy target. And then one day, I knew that if I wanted something to change, I had to stand up for myself. I had to tell her that no matter how much I loved her, I couldn’t keep destroying myself to make her happy. That was her own responsibility, not mine.”

She bites her lip, remembering the fierceness of Octavia’s spirit even when she was just a little girl. She was tiny, but had a sharp mouth and a quick mind, knew just how to push your buttons. Skepticism lines her voice as she wonders with a grimace on her face, “She understood?” 

He shrugs, palms flat on his thighs. He’s still so obviously on edge talking about himself for longer than three seconds. “We still don’t really talk. But we started emailing a while back. She’s seeing a therapist.” He offers her half a grin, ever the optimist. “We’ll be okay.”

Clarke nods, admires his faith in things turning around, no matter how bad they are. She’s always been too realistic for that. She gives him half a grin in return, the start of something new, however small. He always made her want to believe. “Yeah.” 

Bellamy clears his throat, hesitation all over his face. “If you really want to turn yours around, I can help you. Offer moral support. If that something you really want.”

If she’s honest, there’s nothing she could possibly want more. 

* * *

**Bellamy Blake [06:08 PM]**

> _Good luck_

Clarke looks up from where her phone is resting beside her plate, reaching over to take another sip from the red wine Lexa topped off just a few seconds ago. She stares at her on the opposite end of the table, an unknowing look on her face. Stares at the slope of her nose, the movement of her mouth as she chews, her delicate fingers as she cuts up her chicken with her knife and fork. 

In another life, maybe they could’ve really been in love. Not like this. Not just getting by. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Clarke starts. She glances over at her phone again, hoping it gives her enough strength to follow through. “I want to break up.”

Lexa finishes swallowing her chicken, then dabs at her mouth with her napkin as if Clarke had just informed her she’d gotten a speeding ticket. “Okay.”

Tears form in her eyes despite not really having any feelings for this woman across from her, except the kind of nostalgic feelings you get for someone you know you’ve spent a lot of your time with, shared yourself with. Something that once was everything, and then it lost it’s shine. Her voice is shaking as she says, “I’ve been horrible to you.” She might not know much, but she knows this.

Looking in her eyes that night of the gala, her fingers tightening around her shoulder, Clarke knew _she_ knew. That Gabriel had touched her in ways only Lexa was supposed to. “Yes.”

“Why did you stay?”

Lexa shrugs slowly. “Because once upon a time, what we had was good and I hadn’t found anything better yet.” Harsh, but the truth at least. She rolls her rosy pink lips together and there’s doubt in her green eyes, before she adds, softer, “And — I was all you had. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

She frowns at this, wants to understand. Makes no mistake of mentioning her mom. She knows her and Josie didn’t always get along, but she was still there, by her side, after all that’s happened between them. “What about my friends?”

“Who? Josephine?” She tilts her head back slightly, arching one of her brows. “You know better than that yourself, don’t you?”

Clarke presses her lips together tightly, doesn’t say anything. Not sure what she should even say. She guesses she does, know better.

Lexa packs a bag of clothes after dinner, and just like that, she is gone and Clarke no longer just feels alone — she _is_ alone.

* * *

“Okay, what’s next?” He quips in lieu of a greeting, sliding into the chair across from her and dropping his backpack at his feet. He takes a sip from the cappuccino she got for him while waiting, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. 

Clarke feels hot, but she blames it on thick crowd inside the coffee shop. She tears off a piece of the banana bread on the small saucer in front of her, crossing one leg over the other under the table. She’s stalling. 

His eyes linger on her hands, something sad and joyful about them at the same time. “I still remember the day you got that scar.”

She runs her fingers over her knuckles, over the ugly jagged lines weaved onto her skin like a bad memory, chuckles self-deprecatory at the memory. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have picked a fight with a bathroom mirror.”

“You were grieving your dad,” he argues simply, casting aside all her arguments easily, warming her heart with the way he still won’t let her talk down on herself. At least not on the version he knows. “I remember it so well, because that was the first day I ever truly realized how strong you were.”

“Strong?” Clarke scoffs, brows furrowing together as her hands fold around her own coffee cup. It’s hard talking about it still, about how helpless she felt in that moment, and how ashamed she felt after for ever letting it get that far. For being so weak. “I had a nervous breakdown because some stupid kid told me a dead dad wasn’t an excuse to get out of homework.”

“It didn’t come out of nowhere. You’d been building to it for months,” Bellamy counters calmly, watching her take a sip from her coffee, only to keep herself from saying something stupid, like begging him to stop. That this is no longer his job. She doesn’t want to feel better. Not about any of it. “And in all those months leading up to it, no one ever noticed a thing.” He tears his eyes off her hands wrapped around her coffee, looking straight into her eyes, corners of his mouth turned up in a sad close-lipped smile. “Not even me.” Clarke winces, but thankfully he pretends not to notice. Instead he runs a hand over his mouth, sitting back in his chair. “I remember how shocked I was when I found out how good you were at pretending everything was fine.”

She hums in agreement, not really sure what to say. That when her father died just a few weeks after one of her friends did, she felt like she was pushed into a lake of ice water. That she was trying _so_ hard to survive — for everyone, for her mother, for him — but she eventually ran out of air and went under. She felt numb for so long, nerve endings frozen and blocking out all the pain, and then one brutal day — she got yanked to the surface. A single dumb off-handed comment, and suddenly she felt everything all at once. And all of it hurt.

“It’s why I pushed you away,” she admits quietly to the table, like it’s just the two of them in this coffee shop. All other noise and customers fading away. Her eyes flick up to his. “I couldn’t pretend anymore.” And she didn’t want to stop destroying herself. Punishing herself.

He swallows thickly, clasping his hands together on top of the table. His raspy voice sounds so small, it shatters her heart right there in front of him. “It’s not really fair you know. For you to come back.”

She knows it’s not. That’s why she can’t get into it. Say things she might regret.

“Gabriel,” she says after a second, pressing her eyes closed as she ignores his confession. It was always easier that way. “I’ll break it off with him next.”

* * *

Gabriel stares up at her from where he’s sitting on the bottom bunk in the on-call room, dark hands folded together in front of his mouth, elbows on his knees. She figures this is not exactly how he imagined this going when she texted him to meet her here. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, again. Truly meaning it. She wishes she had been a better person.

“You’re such a fucking bitch, Clarke,” he spits venomously, one of his hands folding around the metal bar of the bunk bed so tightly his knuckles turn pale, and she guesses that’s fair. He’s annoyed at her breaking things off, at the prospect of no longer getting laid on a regular basis. “You use people. You get what you need and then you turn around and throw them away. You just decide you’re done with me and that’s that. I don’t even get a say.”

“That’s not fair,” she argues, crossing her arms over her chest. This is not some one-sided thing, they both have to agree to it. No matter how inconvenient it is for him. She’s sure he’ll find some innocent little intern to screw around with soon enough. “Even if you didn’t want this, _I_ want this.” It feels weird to admit it allowed, that she _wants_ something. For herself. “There’s not anything you can say that would make me change my mind.”

“I’m in love with you,” he barks out, says it like it disgusts him before he turns his face away from her. Her first thought is _why._ She can’t even love this fucked up version of herself, how could he possibly love her after she’s hurt him? Knowing what kind of terrible person she is, all the horrible things she’s done? To him, to his wife, Kane, her patients — the list going on and on.

Her eyes widen as she stares at him like an idiot. “What about Josie?”

“What _about_ her? You’ve never cared about her before, why now?” He rises to his feet, hot anger radiating off him. He easily towers over her, but she’s not scared of him. There’s something gentle in his eyes that makes her stand her ground. “What are you trying to accomplish now? Who are you pretending to be this time?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not pretending to be anyone,” she admits, keeping his gaze for a beat as she tries to make him see. She’s not hiding. There is no ulterior motive. “Not anymore.”

* * *

“It’s going to burn.”

“It’s not,” she waves him off, laughing as she fiddles with the heating of the furnace, turning it higher. The fire hisses angrily, and she ignores the pointed look he throws her. “This may shock you, but I know how to cook mac and cheese."

Bellamy just hums cynically, sliding into one of the stools behind her kitchen island with his arms crossed over his chest in silent protest. He watches her work for a while, and Clarke doesn’t look up from cutting up the cucumber for the side salad as she presses, “You know, you could’ve invited Gina. I wouldn’t have minded.”

He scoffs. “I thought this was _my_ thank you dinner?”

She rolls her eyes half-heartedly. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, you would’ve still been the centre of attention.”

A silence follows, and it’s long enough for her to think the subject has long been dropped. Then he awkwardly admits with a flinch, “Me and Gina took a break.”

Her hands still, the knife freezing on the cutting board. First she feels nothing. Then she’s afraid that’s what relief feels like when you’re an adult. Most of all, she finds she’s sad for him. They looked in love. Happy. 

She corners the kitchen island, folding her hand over his shoulder sympathically, doesn’t ask him stupid questions like when or how. None of that matters when it mostly just sucks. “I’m sorry.”

He offers her a half-assed smile. “It’s okay.”

With a nod, knowing this is as much comfort he’ll take from her right now, she makes a move to go back to her mac and cheese. He tugs on her wrist, stopping her before she does. Bellamy nods up at her hair, reaching up to wrap a short curl around his finger. "I like this." His bashful grin widens, and this time it's real. "Suits you."

Clarke bites down on her bottom lip while his hands drop back down, and she hopes to whoever is up there that she's not blushing like an idiot. A few days ago, deciding she needed a change and she was technically an adult and all, she dyed a few strands of hair pink. "Thanks," she mumbles softly, pressing her palms to her heated cheeks for a second before she finally breaks away from him and the overwhelmingness of it all, moving around the kitchen island. Hoping to break some of the suddenly heavy tension, she lifts the lid of the pan and teases, “Hey, look, it’s not burning.”

Bellamy takes the bait, raising his eyebrows, completely unphased as he drums his fingers on top of her shiny white counter. She doubts this kitchen has been used much. “And _look_ , we’re not sitting at the dining table yet.”

She sends him a look, revelling in how easy it is to fall back into their old banter. Almost too easy. Then she remembers Gina, and how that’s probably another thing on the long list of things that are her fault, and just feels like shit. “I request privacy at this stage of my cooking.”

His eyes gleam, obviously amused. “Oh, does the princess now?”

She sticks out her tongue as she stirs her dinner, pretending like the mention of her old nickname doesn’t leave her reeling, and he shakes his head. “ _Fine_. I’m going to give myself a tour.”

Once she gets the mac and cheese scooped onto two plates — a little more on his — and tops it off with some salad on the side, she realizes she hasn’t seen or heard from him in a while. She sucks her cheese-covered thumb clean then wipes her hands dry on her apron, hanging it over the hook on the side of the fridge. Eventually, she finds him in the doorway of her study, appraising her walls.

“You remembered them,” he says, not even looking at her when she comes up behind him, voice hard to decipher. The constellations. The other day, she added the outlines of Apollo and Daphne. From his stories. One struck by a gold arrow, the other by lead. One destined to forever love someone who was destined to hate him for the rest of time. 

She doesn’t want to make everything about him, nor does she try to do it, but it’s hard when he makes up almost everything of who she is. Is there in every memory, weaved into every thought, intertwined with every little hope and dream she has. 

Whenever she reminisced about getting _here_ , to the good, happy part of her life, she always imagined him by her side. It didn’t matter in what way. Not having him there at all hurt the most of all the things she’s learned about herself over the past few weeks.

“Of course I do.” She smiles, joining him in the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. She covered the floor in plastic, her paint brushes still scattered across it. She was planning on starting on the next wall tomorrow. “You used to never shut up about them.”

He finally tears his eyes off the wall, hands behind his back as he leans against the doorjamb. His face is unreadable again as he holds her gaze, but in a different way this time. Vaguely, somewhere, the expression reminds her of a different time. She just can’t place it. His brown eyes shine with amusement, flicking away briefly as he finally breaks their gaze and the deafening silence between them. “And, are we ordering pizza?”

“No, we are _not,_ ” she presses, faux-gasping as she swats at his arm playfully. “You, my friend, are going to _eat_ your words.”

“As long as I don’t have to eat your mac and cheese.”

“If you don’t—” She threateningly cuts off her words, hitting him in the bicep with a balled fist, hard. He laughs all the way over to the dinner table, and eat he does. His words, and half of her plate after he’s finished with his. 

They watch two episodes of a rebooted Queer Eye on the couch with two bottles of beer, knees brushing as they theorize which one of the Fab Five they are most like (she gets Bobby, because they’re both artistic and pale, and he’s Karamo, because legendary peptalks are encoded into his genetics) before he’s looking at his watch, mumbling something about an early class tomorrow. 

She nods, her chest feeling tight as she offers to walk him out. Tonight was nice, and she hadn’t realized how much she truly missed him until she had him back. 

Bellamy lingers by the door long after he’s put on his jacket, looking at her from the other side of the threshold. He taps his knuckles against the jamb, keys jangling in his fist, scraping his bottom lip with his teeth. He makes a move as if to turn around and leave, but then keeps standing there still.

“What?” Clarke wonders, brows furrowed together in fond amusement. Why is he acting so nervous?

Suddenly he’s leaning forward, putting a hand on either side of the doorjamb, and there’s more hesitation on his face as he freezes. Then Clarke smiles besides all of her blood rushing to her ears at lightning speed, about to call him a dork to break the terse tension in the air, and all at once he’s leaning forward to press his mouth against hers. 

Her entire face flushes with a vengeance, his lips soft and searching on hers, learning about her in a new way just like she was about him, one of his hands on her neck to steady her against him. Her own fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweater covering his chest, tugging him closer as their lips slid together, melting into one another. His lips part slightly under hers, just barely brushing her bottom lip with his tongue before he’s pulling back, all of it over way too soon. 

Clarke lifts up her hand to her mouth, touching her lips as if to safeguard the memory, not quite sure that actually just happened. His eyes drift open after another second, still unbearably close to her, a dazed kind of look in them. Bellamy’s big hand on the back of her neck slides forward so his thumb can run over the delicate skin of her cheek when he rasps, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

_So long_ doesn’t seem to cut it. Not when she hasn’t truly felt like herself until the moment his lips touched hers. Her fingers cover his wrist and it’s shaky when she breathes out, “Me too.”

Bellamy’s closes the small distance between their faces to press his forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Please,” he pleads, voice fragile and vulnerable in the worst way, causing a lump to start to form in her throat as tears prick behind her eyes. She’s hurt him in ways she can’t even imagine. Not just that day, but everything that followed after. Not even letting him say goodbye probably somewhere at the top of the long list. “Please don’t break my heart again.”

Palming his face urgently, running her thumbs over his cheekbones gingerly, she presses meaningfully, “I promise.”

* * *

The next day, when she goes into work with the most annoyingly big smile on her face, someone startles her by congratulatory clapping her on the shoulder. Tells her, “Way to go, Griffin,” like that’s supposed to mean something to her.

She doesn’t know what the guy is even talking about, nor does she care. For the first time since she was transported from her a basement closet in her childhood home to an unrecognizable apartment in her name, she feels whole; like there’s no longer a part of her missing and everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be. And if it isn’t — there’s someone on her side anyway, someone she trusts completely. She’s not alone. Not anymore.

It’s not until she sees the sour look on Josie’s face and the list hanging on the door of their coffee room, that she realizes what’s going on. _Four weeks_ , Kane said. With lead in her shoes, she walks over to the list. Her heart is going a mile a minute as she searches for her name. 

_Clarke Griffin. Traumatology._

Her eyes immediately find Josie’s as she whips around, but her friend turns away from her, pretending to be talking to one of the other residents. She knows her well enough to know that underneath the brave face she’s putting on, she is seething. Josie will have to find a different hospital to work at, uproot her life and start over somewhere new. Losing to her again. Her husband, her career. Clarke would be mad too. 

Deciding it’s best to let her blow off some steam first, Clarke fakes a smile as people start congratulating her, while internally, she’s trying to make sense of the turmoil she feels whirling through her body. 

This was something she was supposed to want more than _anything_ else, but instead she doesn’t feel much of anything. It’s a feeling she would love to be able to turn into colors and shapes, put it into paper. She doesn’t want to decide who lives and dies. Silly enough, all she wants is to paint. 

Clarke hands in her resignation with Kane before lunch, then starts browsing her phone for nearby art classes she could take in between patients. She figures she could get by on her savings for at least a little while, long enough for her to maybe open a studio, find some clients. Sell some of those designer clothes and bags if times ever got rough. 

By the time the end of her shift is rolling closer like the light at the end of a tunnel, she’s buzzing with excitement. She can’t make up for all the mistakes she’s made, all the people she’s hurt, but this could be her fresh start, one where she turns her life around and makes something out of. Something worth living. The first person she wanted to tell was Bellamy. She texted him about her important news, and he promised he’d pick her up for some dinner after work. 

Only, he never shows. 

She’s a little late, wrapping up some things and cleaning out her locker. Clarke asked Indra to reconsider taking Josie on for the fellowship instead, figuring it’s the least she could do after all she’s done to her. She might not harbor any warm feelings towards the woman, but they were friends once upon a time. 

Figuring he probably forgot and already having told her driver not to come, she takes the bus home. She wants to find a way to thank him, properly. For giving her another chance and a different choice. For helping her turn a horrible mess into something worth living for. 

Before going over to his place, she decides to make him a painting of her favorite childhood picture of the two of them, symbolizing her new start. One he helped make happen. She can’t find it anywhere, so she has to do it from one of her fondest memories. 

It was at his house, where Aurora would grow produce in their small garden to save some money on groceries, and make a few extra by babysitting Clarke while her parents both had to stay late at work. Six year old her insisted on helping Aurora reap the veggies because she was jealous of Bellamy doing such a good job helping take care of the baby, who she wasn’t allowed to even _look at_ according to him. Aurora went inside to check on a fussy Octavia when it started pouring fat drops of rain, and Clarke simply refused to give up on her mission. Bellamy big-brothered her and stormed into the garden demanding her to go inside, but she was too stubborn, even at that age. She would get all the carrots and all the tomatoes even if it ended up killing her.

When he’d decided on bodily harm and started pulling on her arm, she’d kicked his leg in retaliation, the sudden force of it making his shoes lose grip on the grass. He planted face-first into the mud. Clarke tried to help him, but when he tried to push her away they both ended up slipping right back onto the soggy ground. 

By the time they finally made it inside, they were covered almost head-to-toe in dirt. Aurora just laughed, forcing them to take a picture together with her polaroid camera she only saved for special occasions. In many ways, Clarke was smitten right from the very start, even if she thought he was stupid and irritating. But Bellamy, he just looked annoyed with her, his arms crossed over his chest as she beamed at the camera, two front teeth missing. She doesn’t think he ever _stopped_ scowling in pictures.

Everything feels different when you’re a child. Trees are bigger, and colors are brighter, and every new day is more interesting than the one before, but for Clarke, he has always remained untouchable. Exactly the same, but still bigger and better in so many ways. Special in a way she can’t put into words. 

The painting turns out nice enough, about the size of a tray, and instead of putting her initials on the bottom, she writes a small ‘ _thank you_ ’. He’s always cared, even when he didn’t like her. 

Losing track of time, it’s nearing 9 pm before she’s over at his apartment. 

Except it’s not him who opens the door. It’s Gina. She’s in yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt, her hair pulled up in a messy bun. Her face is bare, but she still looks perfect. 

Clarke stares at her hand wrapped around the edge of the door for a beat, heart sinking at the sight of the ring back on her left ring finger. “He’s not here,” she answers her unspoken question knowingly, not unkind. 

Her brow furrows as her eyes snap back up to Gina’s. She wants to speak, say something, but every time she tries to open her mouth, move her lips — nothing happens. She doesn’t understand.

Gina’s face softens almost pitifully, explaining to her, “He was so upset when he came home. I haven’t seen him that out of his mind since Octavia—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head as she figures it’s not her secret to tell. Clarke’s finally able to hold her gaze, and Gina’s eyes darken protectively. It strikes her all at once Gina knows him in ways she doesn't, and it stings harder than anything else. “She screwed with his head. I can’t even imagine all the things Josie said to him to make him look so distraught.”

“Josie?” A flash of the blonde having to clean out her locker, dump all of her belongings in a cardboard box and running into Bellamy waiting for the girl who ruined her life flashes across her mind. She knew if she wanted to hurt Clarke, ruin her, she had to do it through him. 

“He only told me bits and pieces, but—” She purses her lips, looks down at the floor briefly. “She told him he’d never be good enough for you,” she reveals, crossing her arms over her chest and it’s like a slap across her face as she stands there and lets it wash over her, lets a cold feeling seep into her bones. She raises her eyebrows, “I agree, he is better.” 

It’s not malicious, not at all. Gina truly believes it when she says it, and she’s right. Clarke doesn’t deserve him. She is still standing there, frozen, the painting burning a hole against her side where it’s resting in the canvas bag pressed tightly to her body. She’s so _stupid_. She thought she could have this, have him. After all this time, all the horrible things she’s done. That for once, something could be easy. But she doesn’t get to have him, doesn’t deserve him no matter how hard she tries to change or make up for what she did. Sometimes it’s not enough. 

Gina’s not done, seems to have her all figured out within the limited amount of encounters they’ve had. “We’re happy,” her voice breaks, pleading almost, her eyes sad. For Clarke, for Bellamy — she’s not sure. It’s true, either way. They _were_ happy, before she came in and ruined it with old feelings that were buried a long time ago. God, she basically guilt-tripped him, didn’t she? Made him fix that mess with her mom and then kept showing up until he was forced to let her back in. Maybe he felt like he owed her, after what happened when they were kids — _he_ was a kid. Desperate to not have her abandon him again, like last time. Still taking care of her, protecting her feelings like always. He’s good, too good. She was on the verge of another breakdown after losing everything and he tried to fix it for her, tried to love her back in the way she wanted him to. “If you really love him, let him go.” 

Surprisingly, Gina’s not being petty, or jealous, over what happened the past few weeks. She truly, genuinely just wants the best for Bellamy. Isn’t that what he deserves? Someone willing to fight for him? 

Clarke sniffs, reaching for the tip of her nose when it itches. She finds her fingers wet, and she realizes she’s been crying. She can’t stand to look at Gina any longer, so her eyes flick everywhere but on her as she stammers, “I have to go.”

On hurried flight down the stairs, her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Kane. Work stuff would be a welcome distraction, so she presses it to her ear with a gruff hello.

He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Your clinical trial got pulled.” 

“Why?” Clarke can’t help but aks, intuitively knowing this isn’t a random coincidence. Kane let her out of her contract on several conditions, one of them being she wraps up the trial before she goes, giving the hospital good publicity. They wouldn’t just pull it for no reason.

“Josephine, she went to the board. Told them you took money in exchange for placing people from the control group into the experimental group.” Kane lets out a deep sigh. “This is bad, Clarke. You could lose your license.”

She’s hardly listening, pressing the end call button before shoving her phone into her pocket roughly. It’s not like she even cares about that. Not when the cut of betrayal stings so badly. She talked to Bellamy, told him terrible things. All things considered, it wasn’t _her_ fault Indra picked her for the fellowship. Why would Josie go so far to fuck with a clinical trial, one that was going to change people’s lives all over the world? Clarke is hurt, and humiliated, and angry. Josephine seems to be the cause of most of it. 

Despite knowing it’s a bad idea, especially right now, she needs to speak to her.

* * *

When she shows up to their house, Gabriel tells her Josephine went back to the hospital to get the last of her things, and that’s where she finds her. On the staff parking lot.

“What is your problem?” Clarke demands, slamming the door of her car shut. Josie scoffs, putting the box in her hands on top of the car. 

“What is _my_ problem?” Her eyes narrow as she takes a step toward her, vicious but resigned tone to her voice. “Do you even hear yourself, Clarke?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you, Josie. Do you get off on it? Being cruel?” She throws right back, face morphing into a disgusted scowl. Every time she thinks Josie can’t go any lower, she manages to find a new definition of rock bottom. “I get being mad at _me,_ but why screw with the trial?” And if she’s honest with herself for longer than a second, the thing she truly cares about, “Why hurt Bellamy?”

“You’re seriously asking me _why_ ?” Josie honest to God laughs, but it’s borne out of nothing more than frustration as she throws her hands up shortly after. “You’re the one who came up with taking money from people who received the _real_ treatment. You were my maid of honor and you’ve been fucking my husband for months now. Knowing—” She breaks off, and for the first time Clarke sees a crack in her armor as she pushes her bangs back with a shaky hand, corner of her mouth trembling. “ _Knowing_ that he wouldn’t even touch me after we lost the baby. You even tried to get me fired—”

Oh fuck. Her stomach drops. Somehow each time Clarke thinks that this is it, she can’t be much more horrible than this, someone reminds her that yes, Clarke _can_ be worse. She always did love being the best at everything. Clarke tilts her head, all the fight having left her as her eyes soften, “Josie—” 

Josephine doesn’t even seem to hear her, probably been waiting to say all of this for a long time now. “ _No_. You pretended like me and you competing for that fellowship was a fair fight, when you went to Indra behind my back and told her I was the one sabotaging our trial. You’re _ruthless_ ,” she seethes, shaking her head as her fingers tighten around her forearms. Clarke takes it all, because it’s the least she owes her. She’s hurt, deservedly so. “Now Bellamy too? Taking him from that mother Teresa nurse fiancée of his? _Jesus Christ_ Clarke.” One of her hands comes up to run through her hair roughly as she snorts bitterly, a half-hearted mocking smirk forming on her lips. “And people call me fucked up.” 

She swallows hard, her mouth dry. Maybe she shouldn't ask, but she can't stop her mouth from moving. "Is that why you made him play seven minutes in heaven?"

Josie tilts her head back, her answer clipped and questioning, "Seven minutes in heaven?"

"My sixteenth birthday party," Clarke's voice is shaking for the first time since they started this conversation, and it's mostly because she's not sure she wants to hear the answer. "You made him come into the closet with me."

Recognition finally flashes across her eyes, tone to her voice like she doesn't really understand why she's bringing this up _now_. It makes sense. That day, to Clarke it was everything. It changed her life. For Josie, it was just another Thursday. "Because you two were pathetic! I was _helping_ you, Clarke. He was so gone on you and I knew you'd be too chicken shit to ever do anything about it. I thought maybe he would finally take the hint, then. I was trying to save you both the heartache." She rakes her fingernails through her straight bangs to fix them, as if already moved past the rough emotions from earlier, disattached like always, lips pursed in disdain. "It never would've worked out anyway." She rolls her eyes, cyniscm lining her words. "I mean a mediocre looking guy with a teacher's salary? Talk about the American dream."

Clarke knows she doesn’t have the right, should probably be apologizing, begging for forgiveness, or telling her what a horrible piece of shit she is, but instead she finds herself asking it anyway, knowing it’s the only way she’ll ever get the answer. She reaches up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek quickly. “What did you tell him?”

She pulls open the door of her car, shoves the box inside into the passenger seat. “I told him the truth.” Josie puts one foot inside the car, turning back to her before she slips inside completely. “That you, Clarke Griffin, are too selfish to ever love anyone but yourself.”

She slams the door, and Clarke is left standing there on the sidewalk, watching her drive away.

* * *

She stares at it for hours.

_Bellamy Blake and Gina Martin._

The image of them, arms wrapped around each other in the dark lightning of a bar as Gina’s sister uses her Facebook page to gush about their wedding at his old childhood home tomorrow. Clarke can see it. Them buying the house, living there together. With a dog, probably a golden retriever. And children. Pushing them on the swings, watching them play soccer on the grass behind the house, building them a tree house like the one he built her when they were twelve.

Thinking about it just makes her feel physically ill. Can she let him get married, thinking the ugly things about her Josie told him? Are they not true? Hasn’t this life she’s living proven exactly that? Is she capable of loving anyone beside herself?

_Yes_ , she thinks, heart screaming his name with every loud beat of it against her ribcage. _Yes._

Clarke realizes she’s probably not in her right mind, but she finds herself taking a cab over to his old street. After scorching the crowd of people mingling in the garden and realizing he’s not there, she goes inside, evades a horde of bridesmaids in the living room gushing over Gina’s dress with her expert memory of which steps on the stairs creak and which don’t. Clarke finds him there, inside his old childhood bedroom. It looks relatively untouched. He kept his old house, sublet it to this older couple who only used the downstairs part of the home. 

Clarke clears her throat softly, and Bellamy turns away from his nightstand to look at her. In his hands, there's a photo frame. She recognizes it without seeing it.

“Where’s Aurora?” She asks, voice hoarse. Anything to break this horrific silence.

Bellamy winces visibly, fingers tightening around the frame. “She’s dead.” He puts it down, turns back to her with dark eyes. He smiles, but it’s cold, vindictive. “I sent you the invitation for the funeral, but you never showed.”

There’s so much she doesn’t know. So much hurt between them she has no clue how to put in words. How can she apologize to him for things she doesn’t remember doing? How would that be fair to either of them? Silently, tears slide down her cheeks. She’s never felt this powerless. “Bellamy, I’m sorry. This isn’t — this isn’t the person I am. You have to believe me.”

His eyelids flutter a few times before his brown eyes land on hers. There’s not much more there besides sorrow, regret. She wishes they could at least fight about this, but his voice is quiet and reserved. “I believe this is not who you want to be.”

Despite knowing it’s useless, that he’s made up his mind and there’s nothing she could say or do to change it because some part of him _is_ right. Completely right. She just doesn’t want to leave them like this. With him thinking about her in the way Josie sees her. “I am not a bad person,” she pleads, a tremor in her voice, wiping some tears from the bottom of her nose with the back of her thumb. She says it like she believes it, because she needs him to.

“There’s no such thing as bad people. Just people trying their hardest who make mistakes. We all do,” Bellamy counters, and he did always know just what to say to shut her up. There’s a croak in his voice like it hurts him too, but he still pushes through it. “But we can’t turn back time. And I’m not sure I can forgive all of them.”

All of hers. Paralyzed, she smiles weakly, thinks of him teaching her to drive the car he saved up for since he was twelve, how she was so sure that tree wasn’t there before, how the first thing out of his mouth was just if she was okay and he never said anything bad about it after. And that huge fight they had in ninth grade when he crashed her date with Finn and all he had to do was crack a stupid joke and everything was okay again. The time she broke his mother’s favorite vase and he stopped being mad at her just because he didn’t want her to be sad anymore. “We forgive each other for everything.”

Sad, one corner of his mouth turns up. “We used to.”

The words and their grief over what could have been linger in the air like a dark cloud gathering over them, and with those words, Clarke knows it’s really over. A small part of her wants to plead, _beg_ but the bigger part of her knows he would give in and he doesn’t deserve that. There’s a lot he’s not saying, but the message is clear. He can’t forgive her, not yet, maybe not ever, and even if he does — he can’t forget. What she has done to him, said to him, it’s indefensible. 

Maybe in a different life, if she got to do it all over again — maybe then.

Bellamy moves first, pulling open the drawer of his old nightstand, fishing out a small package. He holds it up for her to see. _Magic wishing dust._ “They don’t make this anymore.” He cradles it in his palm, looks at it a little longer, like it’s the answer to all of his questions. He takes a step forward, holds it out for her. His voice soft, and his eyes pleading, “Looks like you could use it more than me.”

Clarke lets out a quiet sob mixed with a breath of laughter as she takes it from him. It feels like an olive branch. She tears off a corner, pours a little into her hand. Rubbing a few grains between her finger and thumb of her free hand, she looks up to catch his gaze on her, unreadable. “Make a wish,” she jokes, watery, shaky smile on her face as she turns her head away from him, too afraid she’ll burst out in tears. 

“I wouldn’t even know what to wish for,” he rasps, barely a whisper, and more tears fall from her eyes, no matter how hard she blinks, trying to get them away. 

It makes sense. He has Gina. And Clarke doesn’t even know that if she lived the past fourteen years as herself if she’d made any different choices. If she would’ve been brave enough. If she could’ve ever been someone who deserved to be loved by him. 

She tightens her finger around the wishing dust, and he steps back from her, into the sunlight streaming in from outside his window. She notices his eyes are wet now too. “I’ve always loved you, you know?” He tells her, sincere enough for it to shatter something in her chest and spread agony all the way down to the tips of her fingers, arms remaining limply at his sides. “Part of me always will.” But it’s not enough. 

Clarke just bobs her head, barely able to make out his face through the tears. She understands now. She has to let him go. She cries, and then laughs through the tears and the unbearable pain, fixing his bowtie with her free hand. He looks so handsome in his tux. Gina is going to make a stunning bride, she knows. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how badly she wishes for things to be different, this is the life she made for herself.

Her eyes meet his again, and she scrapes together all the leftover courage in her body, throwing her arms around his neck. She squeezes him tightly, tries to savor the feeling as his arms wrap around her waist just as firmly, before her chapped lips press a quick kiss to his cheek. Wipes some imaginary dust of his shoulder as she pulls back. Her hands on his biceps as she promises, shakily, “You deserve this more than anyone.”

For once, he doesn’t argue with her. 

Clarke sits on the steps of his porch in front of his house, empties the rest of the package into her palm. The wedding march starts playing in the distance. She closes her eyes, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Imagines she’s the one walking over to him, the one on the receiving end of his gorgeous smile. She squeezes her eyes shut harder, specks of wishing dust whirling around her, floating away into the distance. 

* * *

Clarke opens her eyes, and it’s dark around her. It takes her sight a minute to adjust, but she’s not at Bellamy’s house anymore. She’s surrounded by board games and old party supplies and unpacked boxes. 

Hope blooms in her chest, and suddenly she’s pulling up her shirt, feeling around her skin for any scars. There’s none, her belly smooth and untouched and a little softer. Certain now, she reaches over where she knows the light switch to be, flipping it on. 

She’s back in her childhood home’s basement, and rising up unto her knees, she realizes nothing has changed. Behind her, there’s still all of the presents. Smack in the middle of it, one messily covered in wrapping paper. Her stomach flips. 

If _everything_ is the same, he’ll be here any minute now. Reaching up, she slides the pink clip on top of her head out of her hair, throwing it off to the side carelessly as she shakes out her blonde hair, parting her hair to the side. Resting her palms on top of her thighs, she impatiently waits for the door to open with bated breath. 

There’s a creak, and she presses a hand to her throat, and then there he is. No glasses, or grandpa sweaters, or nerdy backpacks, or wedding rings, or not knowing how to act around each other. Just Bellamy. Her best friend in the entire world. 

She practically flies up onto her feet and into his arms, hugging him tightly. He’s laughing into her hair, and the sound is such a relief, she starts peppering kisses along the side of his face; his cheek, temple, jaw, anywhere she can reach.

He’s still laughing when she pulls back enough to look at him, his cheeks flushed and her fingers digging into the back of his neck to remind herself this is real. She plans on making use of the entire seven minutes this time around, if that’s something he wants, too. “It’s been about two minutes, Clarke. Your mom’s going to end up being right about us.”

“We’re _not_ codependent,” she argues, easy, getting heated just a little, hands still palming his neck. 

He cocks his head, nonchalant even though anticipation was stabbing her heart. “You pouncing on me as soon as I walked in here after a thirty second separation begs to differ, princess.”

“Oh, sorry, you want me to _stop_ pouncing on you?” She threatens to take a step back from him, but his fingers tighten around her waist, pulling her closer to him. 

She has to strain to crane her neck enough to look up at him. Bellamy’s eyebrows rise, and she’s not sure if she should even risk it after she finally got him back but then there’s a flash of _I’ve always loved you, you know?_ and her lips are on his. He inhales sharply through his nose as their mouths press together hard, and then he’s tugging her closer, both arms banded around her back, their lips moving together. 

Clarke knows that no matter where life takes her, she’ll never have to wonder where her home is. It’s not a house, friends who hardly know her, or a successful career. It’s right here, with him. 

* * *

_Bellamy and Clarke’s apartment_

_2020_

Clarke’s still trying to wash the paint off her hands when an arms wrap around her waist from behind, nose nuzzling her neck as they pull her back into a warm, hard body. 

It sounds a little too suggestive when he teases, “I still have one more present.”

Another? He took her to dinner, then a Bob Ross inspired painting class. She spent most of it trying to get him to stop painting on _her_ , and actually focus on his own work, but although he was good with his hands in many other ways, Bellamy did _not_ have a talent for painting. Their two mismatched canvas’ sit on the fifth step of the stairs, still air drying. 

“No workout until thirty minutes after eating,” she groans half-heartedly, still full from the after-class ice cream parlor trip he took her on. She leans her head back against his shoulder, letting him take some of her weight.

His breath of laughter is hot on her neck before he places a kiss there, right underneath her ear, says, “No, that can wait,” before he pulls back from her so she can dry her hands. Clarke turns around to face him, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest in curious expectation. There, in his outstretched palm, is a small, horribly wrapped package. 

She blinks at it for a beat, confused, and his boyish grin widens as she meets his cinnamon eyes, “Happy thirtieth, babe.”

Clarke eyes him and the smug look on his face warily, but takes it from him anyway. The sound of her unwrapping the present causes Artemis to start pawing at her leg, barking excitedly, and Bellamy squats down to calm her down.

Still petting the dog, he looks up at her, eager to see her reaction to receiving a package of magic wishing dust from him. Talk about a throwback. Gingerly, she clutches it in her palm, shaking her head at him. “Where did you even get this?”

He straightens to his feet, their dog long bored with them now there’s no food involved. He scratches the scruff on his face before scrubbing his hand over it, and then offers with half a lift of his broad shoulders, “Magic.”

“Ebay?” Clarke squints at him.

He tries to stifle a smug smirk, failing horribly. “ _Ebay_.”

She looks back down at the wishing dust in her hand, realizing that everything, including that vague memory of a life never lived, it all lead her here. To this moment. Clarke takes his hand in his, turning up his palm to scatters a little dust into it.

“Make a wish,” he says teasingly, still half-chuckling. 

She blows the specks from his hand, linking her arms back around his neck with a stupid, dumb smile on her face, almost threatening to split it in half. Not all of it’s been easy. They’ve had fights, some of them ugly. About her mom, and his sister, the water bill, the channel currently playing on the television, his sister again. Spend those eight months apart during college because he couldn’t handle all her sudden insecurity and self-isolation and she couldn’t deal with all the overbearing jealousy and overprotectiveness. They both have to work hard to make ends meet every month, to keep this tiny shoebox apartment they live in with a teacher’s salary and the occasional painting she sells. But — she’s _happy_. “I wouldn’t even know what to wish for.”

He kisses her, and although wishes still don’t come true according to Clarke, this life they’ve built together comes pretty damn close to what she’s hoped for all these years. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> yep anyway let me know what you think. after the huge success of my shadow pallete called shades of depression named after bellarke scenes i am now releasing a lipstick collection called 'jason rothenberg one day i will find you' all titled after the various ways i will torture him and his lil racist girlfriend kimmy. find it [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or if you insist [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) or just come say hi.


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